An Immortal Werewolf In Middle-Earth
by KikiB18
Summary: Meara, an old and powerful werewolf, has been banished to Middle-Earth for reasons she does not know. Finding herself amongst shining elves, Meara realizes that the world she is in is extremely black and white. Hiding her true identity, Meara tries to find her way home. Things do not go according to plan. Rated T for Gore.
1. Pre Face

**If you guys have read my story Strength is Needed, (and enjoyed it) I think you will also enjoy this one. It's a bit more on the dark side so I hope you enjoy. PS. This is kind just to see how many people will be interested in reading this story, so I probably won't update until Strength is Needed is completed. Shouldn't be too long though.**

 **Please Enjoy.**

When Meara opened her eyes and focused on the bleary form of Mariah Kernovski, the youngest—actually she's quite old but looks like a snot-nosed pre-teen (which technically makes her the oldest) witch her father has ever hired to help the pack, she knew she was in for it this time. As stated before, Mariah looked like a pre-teen at 5'2 with large bobbing curls in her platinum blonde hair and large eyes, not to mention the underdeveloped body parts. Meara wasn't fooled though, she was pretty sure the little brat was the one who gave the Ancient Greek poet Homer the idea of the Witch Goddess, Circe. Yes, Meara thought she was that old, maybe a little bit more. So you can imagine the slight twinge of her nerves when she recognized the little brats scent.

She waited for her eyes to focus before full on glaring at the girl—there wasn't much else she could do, she could feel the bonds of magic and silver wrapped around her, the silver burning her flesh where it was flush up against it—and she was gagged which meant no verbal sparring with the witch either. Meara shifted her eyes, looking at her surroundings, inhaling deeply. Many scents curled into her nose, mainly pine and salt. She figured they were north and near the ocean. There were ruins of what appeared to be an old castle strewn about the grounds, trees and vines overflowing onto the stones. Now if only she could figure out which CONTINENT she was on that would be lovely. Her gaze snapped back to Mariah, who let out a chilling little giggle.

"Oh, sweet little Meara. It doesn't _matter_ which continent you are on, because soon it won't matter!" She let out another giggle as Meara's glare turned more into a glower. She hated this witch. Reading her mind as if she were some open book. She'd think dirty thoughts and scar the poor girl if she knew something the girl didn't _already know._ The witch had seen and done many things in the past. Many, many things. Meara let out an aggravated muffled sigh, her glower deepening into a scowl.

Movement in the shadows behind the little witch caught her attention and she felt the hairs on her neck stand as they always did when her father was ever around. Meara lowered her eyes, leaning in on herself as her father came into view, a sign of submission. It was the only time anyone ever saw the great Meara Evans in a defenseless state. Besides the whole tied up with magic and silver ordeal, but as far as she could tell there was only her, the brat and her father.

When she heard the low growl her father emitted from his throat, she stiffened, knowing it wasn't at all a good sign. Her father was old at 2,876 years and with what they are and being that old combined; it was hardly ever a good outcome. Shoot, she was ranking up the numbers pretty well herself being exactly 2,000 years younger than him (of course that's not counting the times she's jumped realms). Meara looked up, staring at the point of his chin—looking him in the eye would just be plain stupid even if she were his only family. Meara and her father, Michael—this is not his real name, as he changes it every century or so, last century he was Craig—are creatures of the night, slaves to the turning of the moon.

Werewolves are not uncommon in the world, though thriving in the world of men, they are finding that they are dying off as the wild beings they once were. Meara remembers when she was young, barely passed a hundred years, and running wild on the moors of what is now called Europe. Yet, now, werewolves were domestic things, enslaved to be in human bodies without the option of becoming the wolf without the moons effect. The new inventions of cameras and video tapes made damn near impossible for the wolves to change in privacy and in secret—when you turn into an animal twice the size it should be, people would tend to freak out, not only that but when a werewolf changes it's the most vulnerable it will ever be. A werewolf in its human form is just as dangerous as a werewolf in its wolf form, mainly because most werewolves lived for a very long time and know their way around pretty much any weapon; Meara herself is pretty gifted with the long bow, the sword, the throwing knives and hand to hand combat, which considering most street fights she gets into are pretty chalked up to expertise now.

Meara narrowed her eyes at her father's chin, wondering exactly what she has done this time to piss the unreasonable alpha off. Don't get her wrong she loved her father, she remembers a time when he would tuck her in at night in her little bed of hay and tell her stories of his adventures on the moors. Yet now…now he was this man. As she came of age he slowly turned into a hard man, until it wasn't him who was teaching her but tutors and some of his best warriors. Back then he had been in his peak, he was considered otherworldly handsome—a strong jaw line, pale blue eyes, a mane of brownish hair that had many consider him to be more of a Lion king than a Wolf king. His hair, now, was chopped short, as the style now-a-day's calls for; surprising most of the pack that was with him 2,000 years ago, he put gray into his hair and though he could pass for a barely 30 year old he now passed for a barely 40 year old (amazing what some gray hair can do for you, of course it didn't stop the ladies from throwing themselves at him.)

"Do you know what you have done!?" He growled out, his normally pleasant voice distorted by the growls he was speaking through. "You ungrateful child, do you know exactly what it is you have done?"

Meara let out a growl of frustration—she was gagged, how the hell is she supposed to defend herself!? Of course, her father, as half crazed with anger as he was, took the growl as one of challenging and smacked her across the face. The blow should have broken her neck—nothing she hadn't healed from before—but Meara was sure that Mariah was the one who softened the impact of the blow to her head—much to her dismay.

"Now, now, Michael. You want her to be _conscious_ when you send her away now don't you?" Mariah grinned, tugging as if she were a small child, on Michael's sleeve. The alpha in front of her inhaled, and Meara stared into his eye's, completely forgetting the whole submission thing. He meant to send her away? Away to where!? She's already been _everywhere_. Or did Mariah mean…her gaze cut to the witch. There was a slightly maniacal look in her eyes as she stood grinning there—it was kind of creepy. She figured since Mariah was present in her "send away", she'd be travelling through portals—not her first time—maybe going to another dimension, maybe the future, maybe the past—though she doubted the latter.

Her father growled, making a 'tsk' sound and made a motion for the little witch to proceed, "Get her out of my sight."

Meara stared her father down, blocking out the incoherent speech of Mariah as she cast her spell. She learned long ago that you shouldn't concentrate too hard or your mind won't come out of it well when dealing with magic. It took her three hundred years in the realm of the Kikoo's—a strange bunch they were, little things, but they knew how to throw one hell of a cook-out.

She felt the magic pool around her, a light shining through the dirt ground. The chains and bindings around her loosened, the gag becoming undone, "Goodbye, Father."

At the sound of her voice, an airy sound that many people thought didn't match her cool stares, her father shook his head, and as he started to come out of focus, she saw the look of surprise and fear mix together in his eyes. It wasn't a good combination—especially for her father. The light completely overwhelmed her eyes and the warm lull nearly put her to sleep and she knew that she had disappeared from the earth—possibly for good this time.

Michael whirled to the witch, feeling the strands of magic loosen from his mind, "Where did you send her?" He made to grab the witch by her throat. Her skin started to melt and he retracted his hand at the last moment, eyes narrowed at the woman standing in place of the little witch. Mariah changed her shape again, now looking more of an elegant young woman than that ridiculous pre-teen disguise. The look of satisfaction on her face made him angry—he could feel the pull of the change coming on as he stared at her.

"Where did you send her, Witch?" He yelled again, barely controlling the growls that erupted from his throat.

Mariah smiled fondly at the circle where his beloved warrior princess once stood, "A place where she will either thrive or die," She held a hand up at the anger welling up on Michael's face, "It all depends on her choices."

In a whirl wind of dead leaves and dried flower pedals, Mariah was gone, leaving Michael to stand alone amongst the ruins of his old kingdom—Meara's birthplace.

 **So what do you guys think?**


	2. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Meh, I'm posting chapter 2 for those who need more than a chapter to get the feel for a story.**

Meara felt herself drop onto soft grass, the after effects of the dimension transition knocking her to her knees. She looked around warily. It was dark, a half-moon drifting above her with a small glean of shine. She was surrounded by tall trees, the ground coated with soft grass. Meara stood slowly, perking her ears and listening for the sounds of people. She heard none—but she did hear a strange sound, a sound that sounded close to the screeching of Banshee's but with a more…twisted and sickening purpose behind it.

The wind blew her dark hair up, the thick coils flying around her like a halo. An excited yip—though unnatural in sound came to her ears. The sounds of a pack of dogs came to her ears, the sound similar to that of her own pack up for the hunt. An arrow whizzed by her head, barely scraping against her cheek and she suddenly thought that this pack of dogs was nothing like how she and her pack would hunt. Whatever was hunting her was far too close for her to disappear from sight, so she braced herself, allowing her more beastly side to come forward just enough that her deep brown eyes shined an eerie gold in the darkness. The creatures surrounded her in the darkness, circling her and cackling to each other. Meara's eyes narrowed at the four legged creatures. What a disgusting, sorry excuse of a canine. They looked similar to hyenas…though hyenas have a more…cuddly…disposition about them. These canines' eyes were small, and beady, hinting that they relied more on their nose than their eyesight, and their fur; she curled her nose in disgust—she was sure these creatures had some permanent form of mange—their tails, though short, could be comparable to that of a sewer rat. Her gaze travelled to the…creature…on its back. She bared her teeth at these creatures who seemed to be looking her up and down with some semblance of hunger and pleasure in their eyes. They spoke to each other in a speech that made the hairs on her neck rise with a building fear. It was a similar feeling she got when fighting with vampires or werewolf hunters.

These creatures must be stupid, she decided as one, presumably the leader, dismounted from his shitty excuse of a canine—though she had to admit their size was impressive as they were nearly larger than her—and began to approach her. She stiffened when the creatures smell finally came to her nose, nearly bringing her to tears—and that was really saying something as she has smelled A LOT of acrid things in her 876 years (not even counting the times she's jumped dimensions). The thing must have thought she was afraid of it as he let out a dark laugh, pointing at her and speaking over his shoulder to the other creatures. Annoyance filled her. Ducking her head to hide the feral grin that had grown on her lips, letting her nails grow into sharpened claws. A large smelly hand roughly grabbed her face and forced her to look up but the smug look on the creatures face quickly turned into one of shock as she fluidly sent her tensed fingers into its bare chest, her sharp claw-like nails allowing her to pierce the creatures' skin, her strength alone allowing her to send her whole forearm deep into its chest and out the other side.

Just as quickly as it occurred, her hand was pulled out and the creature dropped like a weight to the ground. Silence ensued as Meara looked to each of the creatures with a predatory smile on her face. She would enjoy killing these creatures. The canines that were rider-less seemed to have the most sense and run away, tails tucked between their legs. Meara thought it may be because they knew on some level she was a creature of darkness, far deeper on the monstrosity scale then they were. A part of her mind suggested in eating the creature laying at her feet, or even licking the black blood on her fingers. Meara mentally wanted to strangle the beastly side of her mind—the wolf—because for some reason like a lowly house dog, it wanted to put anything slightly edible into her mouth. She looked down at the creature and scoffed, hell no would she ever put anything like that in her mouth unless she was going for the jugular and moving on to another fowl creature. Meara had no idea where this creature has been and since it stank as if it had been rolling around in rotten trash she really didn't want to figure out how it would taste—plus it might be carrying some disease (not that she could catch it or anything).

One of the creatures sent its canine forward, the poor mutt whining the more it got closer to her, but baring its teeth at her the whole way. She jumped up, landing on the mutts shoulder and snapped its rider's neck before it could unsheathe its sword. Meara calmly hopped off the animal, the creature running for the hills. However, it seemed that they realized attacking her one at a time wasn't the best strategy so all at once the remaining riders and canines charged forward. It was as if they decided to attack her as if they were charging an army, Meara knew these creatures to be particularly stupid as they hadn't surrounded her as she thought they would—as they had when they'd first come upon her—choosing to attack her as if she had several others flanking her on each side. With a huff, she took one step into the charge, grabbing the leading canine by its jugular and lifting it off its front legs. A deafening roar escaped her mouth, a sound that shouldn't be able to come from her human throat but did anyways. Several birds in the area lifted from the trees and took off with unpleasant screeches. She broke the creatures' neck with a quick jerk of her arm, and let the creature drop, her gaze swiveling to the creature on its back. Just for kicks, she gave it a feral grin and uttered a single word with a growl in her throat, " _Run._ "

Any remaining creature turned tail and left—leaving behind their make-shift leader as he scrambled to get out from under the heavy canine. The beast in her was getting annoyed, and took control of her foot, to Meara's surprise, and slammed it down on the creatures' face, the strength of the blow caving in its face. Shaking her head, Meara quickly took control of herself, her golden glowing eyes fading back to their natural deep brown. Slight anger filled her—anger at herself—for allowing the wolf to get some sort of control over her, she was just glad it wasn't her mind. She grabbed the creatures' sword and unsheathed it, studying the rusted over material. Her nose curled, "Iron? Those pathetic mongrels." She sniffed the sword and swung her head away, "And poisoned, the cowards."

Following her nose, she walked quietly through the forestry for maybe an hour before she came upon a fast flowing river. Ignoring the shiver that went down her spine at the sight of the rushing water, she set the sword on the rocks and leaned over the water, sticking her blackened arm into the water and rubbed the disgusting blood off, praying to the goddess that it wouldn't leave a smell on her skin. Once her arm was back to its clean self and only had a small fowl scent on it, she cupped water into her hands and rubbed her face clean of any stray sprays of blood. The roar of the water was loud to her ears as she turned and grabbed the creatures'—soon to be hers for the moment—sword. Unsheathing it she dipped it into the river, cleansing the blade of poison as she tried chipping off the rust. The sun was starting to rise as she pulled the sword out. It really was a disgusting piece of weaponry. It was still rusted in several places along the blade and the hilt was falling apart. Sighing in defeat, Meara knew that was as decent as she was going to get the sword. She grumbled to herself lowly, cursing the creatures for not having any good weapons she could have. She sheathed the sword, tying it to her leather belt. If she was correct in thinking that she was in a realm where guns and cannons and bombs don't exist—yet—than she may be correct in thinking she would stick out like a sore thumb in her deep blue jeans, knee high tan boots, white tank and discarded cable knit sweater (as it smelled horrible with stains of black blood on it, plus it was far too hot to wear it).

A small scraping sound, like one of a pebble skidding over a boulder, caught her ear. Whipping around, she put a hand to the hilt of the sword she held, but stopped moving all together when she realized she couldn't move fast enough to draw her sword _and_ avoid the _silver_ sword pointed at her in the same instant. Her eyes narrowed at the sword in distaste until she actually focused on it and realized that it was the most beautifully crafted sword she'd ever set eyes on and she had seen _many_ swords in her day.

"Touché." She said, amusement in Meara's eyes as she held her hands up and away from her sword, her gaze following the sword to its owner. He was a dark haired, fair faced fellow, an exact replica behind him. There were several other pretty people around her, bows drawn to shoot her if necessary. _Oh finally_ , Meara thought, _smart people_. Well she thinks they were people—they glowed with an inhuman shine, a familiar shine that had the light-hearted feelings darkening somewhat.

"You are human, yet you have an Orc sword and the tracks leading away from the dead lead to you." He voiced with a lilting accent that had Meara cocking her head to listen. "Who are you? And why do you travel alone?"

Meara looked this person up and down, then she slowly turned, ignoring the tingles that went up and down her spine from the presence of so much silver in her immediate bubble. She assessed the creatures around her; each had their bow drawn and pointed at her. She fought a smile. There was no way she could escape every arrow, and just getting hit once, even grazed could slow her down considerably. She decided to make small talk and go for diplomacy, "Those things are called Orcs? And those mangy mutts they were riding on—what are they called?"

She felt eyes boring into her head and so turned to take the challenge, looking unwavering into the man's eyes. It startled him, she could tell, the power behind her gaze but he didn't drop it, giving her a feeling that this man was far older than his looks let on. "The Wargs—I take it you are the one who killed the four bodies a few miles back."

It wasn't a question but Meara answered with a slight defensive tone to it, "I only defend myself as need be." _And when duty calls._ But she left that last part out.

The 'leader' of this band of pretty men sheathed his sword with a sharp sound that pleased Meara's ears. "You will come with us."

Meara raised a brow, never breaking eye contact with the man, "Is that a command or a request?"

He bowed slightly, breaking the eye contact, "A request, of course, my lady."

 **Please Review! Thanks!**


	3. The Lord of Imladris

The 'leader' of this band of pretty men sheathed his sword with a sharp sound that pleased Meara's ears. "You will come with us."

Meara raised a brow, never breaking eye contact with the man, "Is that a command or a request?"

He bowed slightly, breaking the eye contact, "A request, of course, my lady."

Meara tried to fight the smug smile that wanted to grow on her face—mainly because she could hear the laughter in the man's voice and also because he had, unknowingly, diverted a challenging gaze with fluidity. Meara thought about that for a moment and wondered if she should be smug about that or not. None the less she followed the band of pretty men, each glowing with the touch of the gods, and hoped they didn't plan on killing her. It turns out, the leader, wasn't _the_ leader, but the _co_ -leader of the band as his replica was his twin brother. They were exactly alike in everything including their clothing and speech pattern, much to the disdain of everyone in the band. She knew their names—Elrohir and Elladan—but now she had to tack names onto their specific scents (they smelled completely different from each other even if they wore the same scented lotion).

They walked for ages, though she wasn't tired from walking; she was incredibly _bored_ and while yes she knew she was probably going to some sort of jail or maybe even to her torture and death, she was still fantastically _bored._ These pretty boys had started speaking to each other in another language, to which they would glance at her and quickly look away when she raised a sarcastic brow at them.

"We'll stop to rest here," Elladan said.

"So you can catch your breath." Elrohir continued where Elladan left off, looking slightly annoyed that they had to stop when the sun was still high.

"I don't need to catch my breath, Elrohir. Let's keep going." She continued to walk, snickering at the stunned look on his face. She had figured it out a while ago, as they spoke to each other, pointing to each as she stated their names. Of course, a mischievous look had crossed their faces and as soon as she nodded, walked off, zig-zagging in between the other elves who were rolling their eyes and had slightly amused smirks on their face. Of course it didn't matter how many times they mixed her up—she could still smell their scents. Elrohir smelled like rich earth with a slight tropical undertone to it and Elladan smelled like a fresh spring with water lilies on its surface.

They walked the whole day, and half the night before they came upon an open road leading under an archway and to a beautifully constructed city. They entered in a formation, Elladan and Elrohir in front, Meara behind them, alone and the other six elves paired in two's trailing behind her. Three women, excuse her, two men and a woman stood on the grand stairs that seemed to have been the focus of the city. Meara figured the man in the center was the Lord of this city, and of course she had figured she'd been right about sticking out due to her clothing, as she'd received several disgusted looks from the elves behind her, but seeing this Lord, and what, his scribe of some-sort and…his wife, no—not his wife, but a relation of some sort, as she appeared to have features from the man. Maybe his daughter. Anyways they seemed to be dressed in beautifully _handmade_ (something she hasn't seen in nearly 80 years) clothes.

"Father, we found this woman—"

"After finding dead orcs and a warg—"

"Do not start that again," Meara interrupted, completely forgetting that maybe she should have kept quiet. The twins gave her scathing looks and she had to fight the urge to give them a lopsided grin and hold her hands up in a placating nature.

She quirked a brow instead, coughing to cover up the laugh she let out. Meara smoothed her face over seeing that her interruption was—though amusing, not appreciated. She decided that maybe she should be a little more wary of exactly what these people were going to do with her as they began to speak in their own language. As they spoke, Meara allowed herself to think about why she'd been sent to this realm. Her father had slightly been starting to become unreasonable, going as far as to banish her from the territory—which is why she'd been in Alaska, shopping with one of her mortal friends before this unfortunate incident. Then again, she was banished from the territory for allowing a human to go free who had information—though it was very scarce—of werewolves. Of course that didn't explain why her father banished her from the _realm_ it's not like she was consorting with Vampires or plotting against him with other wolf packs. He had asked her what she _had done_. It didn't matter how much she tried thinking about it though, she couldn't figure it out at all, and then he had looked at her with such fear and _shock_ as she'd disappeared into this one. Almost as if he hadn't realized exactly _what_ he was doing. Meara huffed, hoping to the gods that her father did not accidently _ship her off to another realm_ because he was _slightly insane in the head at the moment._

"Your name, My Lady?" The Lord of the beautiful city asked.

"Meara, daughter of Conan," She supplied automatically, bowing her head slightly. It was so easy to revert back to the times of old, the medieval times. She had been born in the early 13th century, living in a kingdom hidden away in the moors of what is now called Ireland. Her father, his name being Conan then up until the middle of the 14th century, was known as The Wolf King—ironically, because he kept the wild wolves away from their lands, allowing the small village to have plenty of foods. And then there was the Romans. Meara was only 15 when they discovered her fathers' mini kingdom. He wouldn't risk war—especially since there were so few werewolves in the area, and since their foe had some weapons of silver. Meara remembered fire from that time and water—crushing water—but that was it. She did remember training with weapons. Oh how she loved it. She had been a blood thirsty thing. A wry grin appeared on her face—she still is—though it has lessened of late. Meara straightened, looking at this man coolly. He was young looking but she could tell he's seen many years, possibly more than she has if she included the times of her realm jumps. She wondered how long she would be staying in this one. And how many days, if not, hours would pass before she figures out how to get back. That was one thing that always irritated her foes—she always managed to come back not two minutes after they send her off—of course in her point of view it took years and years which she happily left out.

"You have the bearings of a human, yet I sense something more from you than any human I've come to know." He spoke, watching her with a sort of curiosity and wariness in his eyes.

"You and your people have the glow of one blessed by the gods, and yet…" Meara paused trying to figure out the best way to word it, "you seem so normal."

This made the two twins chuckle, "Well, there's a first."

The Lord allowed a small smile to cross his lips, "Indeed, as we elves are considered to be otherworldly to mortal eyes."

Meara fought a smirk, oh how wrong this lord was. Wait. Elves? Now she just had to smack herself, of course their _elves_. These people were eerily beautiful with the glow of the gods on them, there was no other creature—besides the _gods_ themselves that could be comparable. Well maybe Nymphs, but she's never heard of male Nymphs before. She already knew they weren't the Fae because they lacked the malice those greedy little monsters had in their features. Plus they _did_ look normal.

The Elf Lord motioned to himself, "I am Lord Elrond," he then motioned to the twins, "You have met my sons, Elladan and Elrohir," Then he motioned to the wom—elf-maiden beside him, "This is our Evenstar, my daughter, Lady Arwen."

Meara figured that being the Evenstar was a big deal, so she bowed respectfully to the woman. She was quite pretty, Meara decided, much the opposite of her, anyways. Her long midnight brown hair fell in graceful waves and her skin was pale which made her blue eyes stand out all the more.

"There is much I would like to discuss with you Meara, but first I believe you have earned yourself some rest and a meal." He motioned to the man beside him, "Erestor will take you to your rooms, and a meal will be brought to you. After you have freshened yourself, Erestor will guide you to my study where we can speak in private."

Meara nodded, bowing slightly before following the male elf, Erestor. He had dark hair that reached just below his shoulders, just like his Lord and his two sons, though as Meara looked around noting the differences between the male and female elves, the male elves had slightly beyond the shoulders length hair and the females hair went well down their backs, some even passed the back of their knees. She wrinkled her nose, even her hair wasn't that long. When the thick coils were drenched and straightened out from the weight of water, the ends just reached her lower back. Dried, the curling tendrils reached her mid-back. Meara turned her attention to the winding halls, glad that she at least had her scent to follow so she wouldn't get lost.

"These are your rooms," Erestor spoke in a slightly curt tone. She wondered if he didn't take well to strangers, or mortals as they seemed to think her to be. None the less, she smiled gratefully to the elf, and gave a breathy, "Thank you."

One thing Meara noted as soon as the door closed behind her, there were no windows. Oh no, there were windows, but there were no sheets of _glass_ to keep cool air in and warm air out or vice versa. She shook her head, alright go back at least 200 years girl and you got this. A dress was laid out on the bed with dainty looking slippers set on the floor beside them. Meara hasn't worn anything like that since…well since the 16th century. It was similar in design but the closer she looked at it, the more she realized that it was entirely different. For starters, there was no corset—thank the stars—and there seemed to be a lack of petticoats—praise all things holy—and there really only seemed to be two layers of fabric. The only thing that really bothered her now was its complete frilly-ness. It was a deep pink, though muted, and had a square neckline with sleeves that _flared_.

Turning away from the dress, Meara walked to a curtained off section of the room and found a washroom. Oh god they had _plumbing!_ That was one thing about the 21st century that Meara adored, beautiful plumbing and no one throwing their shit out a window and into the streets! Heh, those pretty umbrellas some of the women carried in those portraits were not just _accessories._

Sadly though, as she looked at the bronze tub, she realized she would have to take a bath, as it seemed showers have not been invented yet. She turned a nob and realized once again, that it would be a cold bath as it seems heating has yet to be invented. She sighed, wishing werewolves had the gift of using magic so she could warm her water. With a defeated sigh, she undressed herself and in a quick motion, forced herself into the slightly cold water. Not that the cold really bothered her—all werewolves had internal heating, she practically radiated it—hence why she was in Alaska with nothing but a cable knit sweater on in the fall. It certainly came in handy. There were bottles of soaps and lotions placed beside the tub on a table, to which she opened each and was careful in choosing a scent. She went with the honey and…what was that, sugar? No, maybe some sort of flower? Whatever the scent was, it was light and sweet and poured a small glob of the golden liquid into the tub and began to soap up her skin and hair.

By the time her hair dried, and she was dressed in the ridiculous rosy pink dress—she completely denied the slippers—the sun was rising and a tray of veggies and wine was waiting for her on the bed. She downed the liquid, her metabolism too quick for her to get anywhere _close_ to drunk. She ate the salad, wishing that they'd thought to give her some meat, but she figured if these elves were similar to the Germanic stories of the Elves from her realm, they would be vegetarians. At least there was bread. With the food wolfed down, she went to the door, and opened it, not at all surprised to find Erestor waiting patiently.

 **I want to give readers a warning, this story does start 15 years before the "incident with the dragon" and lasts all the way through to about a good few years after the War of the Ring. Through all this time, there is going to be a lot of going through Meara's memories, so while yes Meara does get involved with events, it's more about her, and focuses on...things. I don't want to give anything away XD So I hope you enjoy it and review, I love to hear what people think of my stories, and I also enjoy positive criticism. (please take notice of the word Positive before criticism)**

 **Thanks again, guys!**


	4. Speaking with Lord Elrond

**So I realized a little belatedly I never did a disclaimer, and usually I only do one disclaimer at the beginning of each story (ergo it was supposed to be in chapter one but because I forgot it is here) SOOOOOO...**

 **DISCLAIMER: The only thing I really own is my character Meara, and her relations of another world. All other characters/places/familiar scenes belong to Tolkien. However, regarding the werewolf and other mythical creatures info that will be shared in this story is a mixture of knowledge I have gained from the TV show Teen Wolf (great show guys. blood and death everywhere) and Patricia Briggs' Mercy Thompson Series (great reads, espesh for those who want a light-reading romantic/reality outlook book about werewolves and other things that go bump in the night. Plus there's a vampire who has his van painted like the mystery machine. what's there not to love?)**

She ate the salad, wishing that they'd thought to give her some meat, but she figured if these elves were similar to the Germanic stories of the Elves from her realm, they would be vegetarians. At least there was bread. With the food wolfed down, she went to the door, and opened it, not at all surprised to find Erestor waiting patiently.

"This way," He said, not missing a beat, though Meara did see his eyes quickly do a once over on her. She figured she looked a lot better than when they'd first met. She padded behind the elf silently, a little impressed that she could barely hear the elf walk in front of her. If he were barefoot, and not wearing such formal robes, she was sure she wouldn't be able to hear him at all. It had been the same with Elrohir and Elladan when they first found her at the river side—it was only the movement of pebbles that alerted her to their presence. Erestor stepped aside, holding a door open for her, she thanked him and stepped into the room.

It looked like a traditional study though there were maybe a few weapons that were strewn about. Scrolls were neatly rolled and placed in cubbies, books that smelled strongly of ink and leather were shelved above them and in front of this impressive collection of scrolls and books was a large mahogany desk, several boxes placed on top, though all closed and probably sealed tightly, and several other pieces of parchment. Lord Elrond stood away from this table as he was at the window—excuse her—as he was facing where a wall _should_ have been. His study abruptly turns into a balcony over-looking the valley.

"Lady Meara," Lord Elrond greeted as he turned to face her. At his acknowledgement of her, Meara heard the door shut behind her. She assumed that meant to go further into the room.

"Lord Elrond," Meara said in return, curtsying slightly.

He watched her for a moment, a small frown on his face, before continuing, "Do you know where you are, Lady Meara?"

She shrugged her shoulders, "I have not a clue."

"You are in Middle-Earth. This is my city, Imladris. Known in the common tongue as Rivendell." He spoke slowly, as if waiting for her to freak out. But Meara only nodded, a thoughtful look on her face. He continued, "I am not quite sure how you managed to come here—you know?" He caught the grimace on her face as he spoke.

"I do." She pondered on how much she should reveal. "I was…banished here."

Lord Elrond raised a brow and motioned for her to sit in a comfortable looking chair. He sat behind his desk and then asked her to continue. "Banished for what?"

"I wish I knew." She muttered, frowning at her knees as she thought. Meara really couldn't think of anything. She'd been released of any and all duties she'd had when she was banished from the territory; she did exactly as her father requested, never seeking for communication or even traveling _through_.

"What kind of being could have the power to send you to another world?" Lord Elrond studied the girl, his curiosity peaked.

"There are many…powerful beings in my world. This particular being was a…witch." Meara spoke hesitantly, watching the Lord carefully for his reaction. She knew she said the wrong thing when he stood suddenly.

"You were sent here by witchcraft?"

Meara raised a brow, "You ask that like it's a bad thing."

A guarded look made its way onto Lord Elrond's face. "If you were sent here with Dark Magic—"

Meara cut him off, "Dark Magic? You think Dark Magic sent me here?"

"You said so yourself."

Meara frowned, shaking her head, alarms ringing in her head. "A witch did send me here, but it was on request by my father. Besides that, this particular witch may be an irritating little brat but she wouldn't dare dabble in Dark Magic."

At this, Lord Elrond's eyes narrowed slightly, "There seems to be more to this story then you are speaking."

Meara sighed, "This world also seems to be different then my own. You speak of witchcraft like it's a vile practice."

"You don't seem to think so." He stated.

"It's a gray area." She sighed. "Witches can be good or evil in my world. We call them Black Witches and White Witches. I was sent here by a White Witch—a very old and very powerful witch. White Witches use natural magic or earth magic to use their spells, and in return they give something up. Black Witches on the other hand, use dark magic, usually created by the suffering of other creatures. Not a pleasant bunch, they are."

"Gray area, indeed." Elrond mused. "The witch who sent you here was very old and powerful yet you refer to her as a 'brat'?"

Meara rubbed her forehead, "Her current form is that of a child. Not only that but she has dabbled in my life one too many times."

"I see." Lord Elrond sat back and studied the woman. "So this witch sent you here on orders from your father?"

Meara was hoping he'd forgotten that tid-bit she let slip after she'd given him the 101 on witches. "Yes."

"And you don't know why."

"No."

"Does this happen often?"

"Yes."

Lord Elrond leaned forward, a frown marring his soft features. "Tell me. How does a human woman kill three Orcs and a Warg? Do not lie. Elrohir and Elladan gave me a thorough explanation of what _exactly_ you managed to do."

Meara thought fast. "I'm a trained warrior. I killed them the same way any other would."

"The Wargs neck was broken cleanly. Not even an elf can do that."

"I've dealt with…warg-like creatures before. I used its own weight against it."

"And the orc with its skull crushed?"

Meara glowered at the ever curious elf, but he had the look of patience about him, so with a huff, she sat back in her seat crossing her arms over her chest defensively, "So I may be slightly stronger than the average human."

"So it seems." He gave her a level look. "You seem to come from a world where there are less fowl creatures. You seem to be apprehensive of Orcs and Wargs."

"What exactly are Wargs? They look like Hyenas…but…" Meara trailed off, thinking of a proper way to describe them.

"I take it Hyenas are your worlds' equivalent to wolves?"

"Oh heavens no. Hyenas are a breed of wild dog in the Savanna but they are nowhere near that size, nor are they…evil creatures as these Wargs seem to be."

"Another 'gray area'?"

Meara smiled, "Not exactly. Natural creatures, such as Hyenas and wolves, are not evil. They can only be considered as much if they are influenced by outside forces, like a spell or enchantment."

"Natural creatures?"

Meara's response was automatic and said absently, "creatures untouched by magic."

"You seem to know much about your world." Lord Elrond stated.

"I read." She knew Lord Elrond wasn't buying it, but she would refuse to let him know exactly what she was unless it was absolutely vital he knew. Meara doubted she would ever lose control of herself again after the Orc incident; it was one of the finer things about herself that she took pride in. For a werewolf, control is one of the most vital things when it comes to Undiscovery and well living. Meara internally grimaced at the lessons she was taught when she was very young. Because she was born a werewolf (unlike every single other werewolf that ever existed) she had a better grasp at controlling the more beastly side of her and it was only when she'd lost control when she was eight and killed her best friend that she understood the importance of _control_. A shiver travelled down her back. After that fateful date, Meara has never lost complete control of herself—even when she was so furious she saw red. It was probably because of that control her father made her a Hunter one hundred years later. She was nearly an expert with her bow, she was deadly with her knives, and she was practically a god of death with her blades.

"I see," Lord Elrond said, breaking Meara out of her thoughts. "You must be tired. I will let you rest; you may stay in Rivendell as my guest for as long as you like."

Meara frowned, thinking this elf a fool to allow a stranger to freeload. "If I may, I'd like to try and find a way to return home?"

He studied her for a small moment once more. "Very well. I will have Elladan and Elrohir help you."

Meara smiled, rising from her seat and bowing respectfully to the Elf Lord. She exited his study and followed her scent back to her room. Shutting herself inside the room, she paused, her eyes roaming the room and her nose smelling the air. Someone had been in here not too long ago. Meara inspected every corner of her assigned rooms, only finding her dirty clothes missing. Her tense shoulders relaxed slightly. With a sigh, she went to the wardrobe pushed to one side of the room and opened it. Strangely she found other dresses that looked to be her size and one nightdress that was far more extravagant than any she's ever had—even when she'd been a princess. Changing quickly, she immediately went to the bed and sat down (she admits the bed was more than what she was expecting), pulling her hair forward and tying it into a rather loose and messy french braid. Being from the medieval age, Meara knew a few tricks about tying hair without the neat invention of hair bands and used a lock of curl to tie of the end so it wouldn't come undone. With that accomplished, Meara crawled under the covers and immediately fell into a slumber.

 **Here's chapter 4 for you guys! I just want to let you guys know in advanced so you don't pull the hairs from your heads. This story is most likely going to run very slowly, at least until after the "incident with the dragon". Though I assure you, it will not be boring. I'm a quite humorous person (or at least I think so) so hopefully you will find my comic relief to be quite amusing.**

 **Thank you!**


	5. Enter Glorfindel and Creatures of Earth

**Disclaimer: There is a reference to Arthur Spiderwick Chronicles though unless you have read the field guide like me, you may just skim over it and not realize it. But I'm putting it there anyways. Also, I use a lot of my basic info on the mythical creatures from this dragon book whose title I can't remember or find because it's packed for college and my Monstrology book. the unicorns are based off of both The Last Unicorn and one of Mercedes Lackey's novels (I believe it was called Obsidian Shadow) Good book btw. I've based the Fae off of Julie Kagawa's Iron Fae series and this other book whose name escapes me at the moment. So yes, those are my disclaimers. Also this is major info thrown at you...just..a lot of info..thrown right up in there.**

 **Enjoy**

It had only been two days since Meara arrived in Rivendell. She was already antsy with searching for a way home—turns out all the scrolls are written in elvish and she needed a translator. Of course, her translators were never around for her to get translations. She resorted to searching for them and succeed. She was watching, with a rather amused expression, as the two sparred with beautifully crafted blades.

Almost immediately as she settled to watch, a golden haired elf approached her. She smiled respectively at him, nodding her head, and turned back to watching the two spar.

"My lady, the training fields are not particularly meant for one in a dress." The elf spoke, looking at her with amusement. Meara shrugged, standing.

"I suppose I should change into something more fitting for the training fields then." With that she swiftly went to her rooms, changing into her jeans and tank—which were thankfully returned to her after they were cleaned—and threw on a riding shirt and vest for some form of modesty. The golden haired elf seemed surprised to see her when she returned, her hair tied in a not at the nape of her neck. Maybe it was because she was barefoot. (The dresses usually hid that fact but she wasn't wearing a dress now.) Meara sat back down on the bench she was sitting on and watched as the two elves did some fancy moves with the blade.

"Are you interested in the sword, milady?" The golden haired elf asked, conversationally.

"Not particularly. I was looking for these two to help me with some translations but this is more fascinating. I didn't know elves could move this quickly." She glanced up at the elf with a small smile.

"Sometimes we move too quickly for Man's eye to catch." The elf nodded, turning to watch the two.

"Some of these moves are very…extravagant." She noted, cocking her head at one particular move Elrohir performed. She knew if she tried that particular move in her own world she would be missing a limb already. "Are the creatures here you fight against particularly slow?"

The question popped out of her mouth before she could filter it. She grimaced, looking to the elf. He was watching her with a rather amused look. "Elves are much swifter than Orcs and Goblins. Enabling us to be…extravagant…with our weapons. Do you know your way around a blade, Lady…?"

"Meara," She supplied, "I used to be pretty talented with a blade, but it's been some time since I've used one."

"I am Lord Glorfindel. I'll let you borrow a blade; come, let's see what you know."

"I'm a bit rusty." Meara felt excitement fill her—this is going to be fun.

The sword Lord Glorfindel allowed her to borrow was (big surprise) beautifully crafted with a marble hilt—which is wonderful because then her hands won't get burned and heal painfully slow. They returned to the practice field, and took their stances in another small arena. A small amused smile graced Meara's lips as she swung her sword to get a feel for it.

"Ready?" Glorfindel asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be." The moment the words were uttered from her lips he swooped forward, gracefully sending offensive blows to which she blocked perfectly. It had been nearly three hundred years since she used a sword (guns were much more convenient, especially on the vampires) and so she allowed him to repeatedly pound on her until her body remembered the movements and lessons that were engrained into her mind.

It surprised Glorfindel when she quickly changed tactics on him, and instead of blocking blows, began to start an onslaught of attacks that had far too much strength in them for someone as mortal as Lady Meara. It went back and forth, he would block and then attack, she would block and then attack; and it seemed like it would repeat itself until Meara did something unexpected. They were at a stale mate, swords locked as they tried to push for dominance over each other, when Meara grabbed the hilt of his sword—quick as lightning—and twisted away with her steel grip on the hilt and tore the blade away from Glorfindel's hand. He found himself with a blade to both sides of his neck.

Meara was grinning madly, just barely winded from her match with Lord Glorfindel. With her grin still in place, she offered back his sword and let out a small laugh, "I forgot how fun fighting with swords is."

"You…" Meara turned to surprised looking twins. "You defeated Lord Glorfindel."

Meara blinked, looking from said elf to the twin lords. She questioned, confused, "Is...that bad?"

Elladan and Elrohir stared at her with stunned expressions on their faces. "You would have to be extremely skilled to get the upper hand against Lord Glorfindel."

Meara saw her mistake then. She'd been too eager (and kind of wanted to show off) in her fight with Glorfindel. Thinking quickly, she gave them a rueful smile, "Or incredibly lucky. I saw an opportunity and took it, that's all."

With a shrug she offered back Glorfindel's sword, giving him a small smile and bow. She ignored the fact that he was looking at her with suspicion. For now at least.

"What else are you skilled with, Milady?" he asked.

Meara untied her hair, pulling it into a quick braid, and shrugged, letting her hands fall to her sides. "Archery and the art of knife throwing. But I'm only decent at it. I'd hardly call it 'skilled'."

The lie was easy to claim, but it would be harder to lessen the extent of her skills. She grimaced when they began to usher her towards the archery range. A bow was shoved into her arms, a quiver of arrows placed next to her. Blinking, she looked back at the three Elf Lords who looked both fascinated and excited to see her shoot. Well, Lord Glorfindel only looked mildly curious, however he was still watching her with a suspicious look. Swallowing, Meara gripped the bow in her left hand, knocking an arrow, and pulling the string to her cheek. Knowing she couldn't allow them to know how truly skilled she was (after all they think she mortal, and it would take many years for someone to gain as much skill as she, much more years than she looked anyways.) She let the arrow loose, aiming for the inner ring. Meara was pleased when the arrow sunk into the spot she wanted it, but frowned when she studied the arrow from this distance. She looked at the bow in her hand then scowled, looking at the stunned elves behind her.

"Okay, so I'm a bit stronger than the average mortal." She conceded, "Really you could have just asked me, instead of tricking me like that."

The last part of her sentence had her narrowing her eyes at the golden haired elf, who at least regained some semblance of a 'less-surprised' look on his face. Meara frowned at the draw string on her bow. Only someone incredibly strong could pull back the string. For her to believably be able to pull back on the string she'd have to have extremely muscular arms and shoulders. While yes, her arms were muscular, they were sleek and an appropriate amount of bulky that could still be considered feminine.

"How is that even possible?" Elladan asked, an incredulous look on his face, "I mean, you look like—

"You're barely strong enough to—

"Lift a flour sack."

Meara rubbed her forehead in irritation. "I really wish you two wouldn't do that."

"How is it that you are so strong?" Lord Glorfindel asked, an odd expression on his face.

Meara turned away, staring at the arrow that only had it's tail feathers sticking out of the target. She wondered how to explain it without letting on what she is. Being a werewolf had never been easy, especially in her younger years, when people weren't so…open-minded. She decided to give the truth, leaving out miner details…okay major details. "My mother used magic spells on her body so that she could have me. The…inhuman strength is just a side effect from all the magic."

"Was your mother able to use magic?" Glorfindel asked, she could hear the confusion in his voice.

"No," Meara hesitated slightly, turning her ear to catch his voice more. "She…knew a witch…and asked for her help. She was unable to carry children, so she went to any length to have one."

Werewolves, as healthy and nearly indestructible as they were, were unable to have children. Oh, they could get pregnant, but the change from human to wolf and vice versa was so violent that a baby couldn't survive. It was near impossible for a werewolf to be born, and when her mother found out she was with child, it was the greatest thing she'd ever known. She turned to the pack's then white witch, Angelique Le Belle, to if not stop her monthly transformations, at least ease it to allow the life within her to survive. The monthly magic doses proved to be too much for her mother; she became ill (unheard of for werewolves as it seemed she had a human related illness) and only survived long enough to give birth and name her daughter. Meara never knew her mother, everything she'd ever heard of her were from the members of the pack, and only once from her father. Meara shook the thoughts away, turning around to look at the elves behind her. She tilted her head at the wary looks on their faces, then she remembered Elrond's reaction to the word witch.

Scoffing, she blew a loose curl out of her face, "She did not use dark magic. Things are different in my world then this one."

Setting the bow aside, she started to walk off.

"Wait!"

She paused, looking over her shoulder with a raised brow. Glorfindel had taken a step forward, a hand reached out as if to grab her shoulder. "Different how? I'd like to know about this world of yours."

Meara thought about it. Really it would be a head ache to explain everything, however…she gazed at the wary curiosity on Glorfindel's face, then her eyes drifted to Elladan and Elrohir who wore similar expressions on their face. She let out a sigh, "I'd rather talk about it in a more comfortable setting, if that's all right with you."

There was a nod and soon both Elladan and Elrohir left in a flurry. Meara went back to her rooms. Frowning softly to herself, Meara undressed herself, and took a bath washing the small amount of sweat from her skin. Her hair, she kept pinned up and out of her face, not wanting to wash the thick tendrils. She used the same soap that pleased her nose, lathering her skin and then rinsing quickly—the water was cold. Meara got out, dressing in a deep blue gown accented with lighter blue. She'd just braided her thick hair back when a knock sounded at her door. She was expecting one of the twins or maybe Erestor. She wasn't expecting Lord Elrond. Blinking, she bowed in respect and cocked her head with a curious look in her eye.

"I've been told you were going to speak of your home world. I'd like to sit in, if that is all right." He said as he provided an arm, "I would also like to introduce you to a friend of mine."

"Of course, my Lord." She said, taking his arm and padded alongside him as he guided her down the hall.

"Are you barefoot?" He asked, amusement lacing his voice. She chuckled sheepishly.

"Eh, yes."

He didn't question her further, an amused look on his face as he led her into what looked like a library. It was magnificent. Tall shelves filled to the brim with leather bound books. Tapestry hanging from rails to the floor. Stone statues carrying a variety of things—most likely ancient. Her attention drew to the small group of people who sat in what looked like a lounge. Lord Glorfindel and the twins she spotted right away, arching a brow at the other three people in the room with them. Lord Glorfindel pointed to the twins. With a roll of her eyes she looked to the rest of the group. She saw Arwen, and smiled at the elf maiden, who smiled in return and then there was an old man with a grey beard and a pointy hat with gray robes. Erestor stood behind them, a rather blank look on his face.

"Good evening," Meara said politely, smiling amusedly at the old man. He had a strange scent; like burning herbs. It was a pleasant smell, Meara decided, and she bowed her head to him as Lord Elrond introduced him.

"This is Gandalf the Gray." He, in turn introduced me to the old man as well, "And this is Lady Meara, daughter of Conan."

"How interesting." The old man spoke, a slight spark of amusement and confusion on his face. "It's a pleasure to meet you my dear. I hear you are from a world far different then our own."

"I am," Meara conceded, a little uncomfortable with the way he loomed over her. Meara wasn't very tall compared to the elves—she'd been average height for a woman at five feet and four inches, but the elves were slightly over six feet tall and this old man, Gandalf stood a good four or so inches taller than they. So yes, she felt small, and she was highly uncomfortable with it. Gandalf, with a slight smile, took a seat on the sofa behind him, giving everyone their queue to take a seat. To Meara's surprise, Lord Elrond encouraged her to take a seat on a large looking arm chair that she expected himself to take. It seemed, however, that the chair was reserved for her.

Meara blinked as she sat, a little amused at the curious and excited expressions of every one that sat around her like children about to hear a story. "Uhm, I'm not sure where to begin. My world is…slightly chaotic."

"Chaotic how?" Lord Glorfindel asked with a frown.

Meara sighed, rubbing her forehead, "I guess I should start with humans. Or Man, I think is what you refer to them as."

"Humans? That's what Man from your world call themselves?" Elladan asked, looking confused.

"Yes, or Homo sapiens but that is another thing all together that is far too complicated for me to even think about right now. Anyways, the humans of my world are very advanced with their technology. They've built great cities with buildings that reach into the sky. They call them sky scrapers. They've invented much, learned how to harness energy…They've made a lot of…interesting things. The most convenient is the car, though it's also the most destructive. A car is sort of like a carriage, but it doesn't need a horse to pull it. It runs on fire and oils. The fumes that are created cause a lot of problems in the environment, as does most of their inventions actually…" At her small audiences' look of horror, she grimaced, but forced a smile, "They are trying to find a way to fix that."

"So you come from an advanced society of Man," Erestor spoke for the first time to Meara since she arrived, "Is that why you were dressed strangely when you arrived?"

Meara gave a curt nod. "Yes, their style of clothing is much different from yours. It's normal for women to wear breeches, they call them pants or jeans. No one has worn dresses like these for a very long time." Meara motioned to her own dress, "….what I was wearing when I arrived would actually be considered modest."

Everyone's eyebrows shot up, even Arwen's. "Really?" Her smooth voice questioned.

Meara let out a laugh, "Indeed, and the humans are less formal…they no longer have Kings or Queens. More like large counsels. Though there are a few country's who still have a monarchy. They are small however. Not as great as the kingdoms of old."

Meara shook her head, finding herself remembering something she'd rather not. "Most humans are unaware of…the other beings in their world."

"Other beings?" Gandalf asked, leaning forward and stroking his beard with a thoughtful look.

"Yes," Meara said with a sigh. "I don't even know where to begin with them. There are so many."

Elladan and Elrohir leaned forward, both silent as they listened to her speak of humans. In unison they asked one thing. "Do you have orcs in your world?"

Meara shook her head, "I don't believe so. I've never seen one."

"What if you list them out?" Arwen suggested, "And if we are curious about one in particular, you can tell us what you know of them.

"That's a great idea, Lady Arwen." Meara smiled, and then thought of all the creatures, "Now I want you to understand that things _are_ different in my world than here. What may be evil here is not necessarily evil in my world."

"Like witches." Lord Elrond said, and everyone looked from Lord Elrond to Meara with wide eyes.

"Yes, everyone in my world has a choice to be evil or not. The witches who use the earth's magic through a sacrifice they must make themselves, are considered white witches. On most occasions they try to help people, though it can backfire. Actually it usually does backfire on the people—but in the witches' defense they _do_ warn them of the consequences. Black Witches…black witches are probably nothing but evil. They mostly use their powers for personal gain, sacrifice others for payment…you don't want to ever cross a black witch. The outcome is never good."

"A white witch sent you here, on request of your father." Lord Elrond asked, "Is that normal for a white witch to do?"

Meara coughed, taken slightly by surprise, "Mariah, the witch who sent me here, she is entirely different from witches in general. For one, she is ancient. I am sure she is more than a millennia of years old. Most of her powers were acquired as gifts from servicing…gods I presume… _her_ spells hardly ever call for an exchange to be made."

Lord Glorfindel frowned slightly, "How did your father manage to convince her to do his bidding?"

Meara flat out lied, "I'm not sure. Usually she asks for a high price for her spells—she _is_ one of the most powerful witches. Even Titania wouldn't mess with her."

"Titania? Who is that?" Gandalf questioned.

Meara rubbed her forehead, "Titania is the Queen of the Faeries. Or the Fae for short. Now _they_ are hard to explain. There are two kingdoms of the Fae. Oberon and Titania are the Rulers of Summer and Mab is the Queen of Winter. _Both_ you would consider to be evil…though it's the Fae who belong to Winter you want to stay clear of. The Fae consist of many things. From Kelpies, Satyrs, Centuars, shapeshifters, pixies, cat saiths, red caps, and most fairytale creatures—"

"What are Satyrs?" Elladan asked.

"Uhm…They have the upper body of a human and the lower body of a goat…they play music to lure people and mess with them. Centuars are similar, though quite more noble and the most approachable Fae you'll ever meet. They also have the upper bodies of human's, however they have the lower body of a horse. Where a horses' head usually rests is where their waste becomes that of a horses' body. They're actually quite majestic looking. Especially in armor."

"So these Fae…they are evil?" Lord Elrond asked carefully.

"Most would think, but it's only in their nature to be as they are. Though there are some who are just plain evil. Such as red caps. They are about two feet tall with sharp teeth and the need to eat meat all the time. They dip their hats in the blood of their victims before they eat them. Thus red caps. They are Fae of Winter. Most Winter Fairies are not fond of humans. At least that's what I think."

"That's barbaric," Lord Elrond said. "How do the humans of your world not know they exist?"

Meara moved some hair behind her ear, slightly nervous for speaking of their magic. The Fae always have a knack for knowing when they are being spoken of. "The Fae live in a separate plane on the earth, it's their own realm that you don't ever wish to step foot in. For one, there is no such thing as time there. You could set foot in the Nevernever, as they call it, and be there for two minutes and return to your own plane and find you've been gone for centuries. Or you could be there for decades and find only a minute has gone by. Human's also have a defense against them that is almost everywhere in their world. Iron burns fairies; that's why they have their own realm, as almost everything in the human world is made of Iron. The Fae are only one of the Immortal Races of my world. Some witches are immortal, but it's an unusual trait among them."

"Do you have dragons?" Gandalf leaned forward, a curious twinkle in his eye.

"We do. There aren't many left, I think, but it's hard to tell because they can change their shape."

Gandalf looked bewildered, "Change their shape!?"

"Yes," Meara smiled, "Most dragons are curious and change into humans and roam about. They are one of the oldest creatures to exist on our world."

"What of their hoards? And burning villages, or these cities of yours?" Lord Glorfindel questioned.

Meara shrugged, "Most of the magical creatures thought it best to remain out of the humans radar. The humans of my world tend to react…violently to things they don't quite understand. Most dragons that cause mischief usually do it as humans and only then it's usually something minor. As for their hoards…They've become quite skilled at hiding them from people. By making them available to the public, most dragons keep their hoards protected because the humans protect things from their history. That's one good thing about humans…they love to learn and know about themselves. Though it can get them into trouble if they aren't careful.

Dragons and the Fae are only two of the dozen or so Immortal Races. There are Merfolk, who reside in the ocean; most have fins instead of legs, similar to that of fish. Though there are a few who are different looking. Most look human. There are those who look more fish like though." Meara smiled fondly when she thought of the next immortal creature. "One of the purest creatures to exist in our world is the Unicorn. To most, the Unicorn appears as a white horse. They are a little different though. For one Unicorn's have a spiraling horn on their foreheads that are very sharp. It is said that it can pierce through anything. They have the body of a horse the tail of a lion the beard and the cloven hooves of a goat and the agility of a deer. Pure magic is stored in their horns. All unicorns are white, though when they are born they are silver and as they age it slowly becomes so white it isn't comparable to anything but sea foam. It's near impossible for anyone to touch a unicorn, let alone see one. Only a virgin has the ability to do that."

"Have you seen one?" Elrohir asked. Meara felt her cheeks turn pink at the mischievous look on his face.

"Elrohir!" Elrond and Arwen said in unison.

"It's alright." Meara allowed the comment to pass, "I did see one, or at least I think I did. It was a long time ago though."

"How long ago?" Lord Glorfindel asked, studying her with a careful look. Meara didn't like it at all. She felt that he knew something about her she wasn't willing to share.

"A few years." More like 345 years, but she wasn't about to get specific. "Unicorns, though, are very rare and so pure that almost every being considers it a sin to kill one. Not even a Black Witch would dare even think about harming one. It's also believed that when a unicorn is killed, the magic in the world lessens a great amount."

Meara let out a sigh, rubbing her forehead in irritation, "Then there are the vampires."

"You have Vampires? As in plural? More than one?" Elladan asked, aghast.

"Middle-Earth once had a vampire or two." Gandalf recalled.

"Really?" Meara asked, curiosity peaked. "What were they like?"

Lord Elrond spoke, "They were bat-like, with large wings and fangs."

Meara raised her brows with amusement. "How…funny."

Everyone looked at her like she'd grown a second head. She let out a small laugh, "It's just that…the vampires of my world are very vain creatures. They look like humans and act accordingly. They are more…evil is too strong a word…they are just…it's hard to describe them. Most live peacefully amongst humans in their covens. However there are those…who see themselves as…higher beings. Really with Vampires, it depends on the person. Most vampires were once human, turned by another vampire, and so keep their moral sense."

"So some are evil…and others are not?" Gandalf asked, his brow knit in confusion.

Meara nodded, "More or less."

"So that's five Immortal Races…" Elladan spoke, counting on his fingers, "Dragons, the Fae, Merfolk, Unicorns and Vampires."

"Yes," Meara nodded, then began to name the others, "Banshee's, the Great Spirits, Druids, Werewolves, the Small Ones, and…elves."

"Werewolves?" Lord Elrond spoke, slightly taken aback, just as practically everyone else spoke of the elves.

"One at a time!" Meara said, raising her hands with exasperation.

"What are these werewolves like?" Lord Elrond spoke calmly.

Meara bit her lip, wondering how much to say, and exactly _what_ to say. "It depends on the werewolf."

Lord Elrond raised a brow, and Meara quickly continued, "Werewolves can be….temperamental. It's best not to make them too angry or…they'll snap. Most werewolves are short-lived despite being immortal because they break the laws or accidently kill someone."

"Laws? Accidently?" Lord Glorfindel raised a sarcastic brow.

"Yes," Meara said stiffly, "Werewolves were once human, so their control of themselves is rather…strained. Most alphas, or leaders, keep the new wolves in check. The leaders of the packs are usually the oldest and most dominant wolf. The older the werewolf, the more control they have. The more control they have the more dominance they have as well. Werewolves tend to lead violent lives, and would rather keep the violence to themselves. Often times, a young werewolf will lose control in public and kill someone. That is dangerous to the survival of werewolves and so they are killed depending on how bad the damage is, or if it has happened more than once."

She said too much. Or maybe she didn't say enough. Lord Glorfindel looked slightly pale. She looked at him with a concerned frown, "Are you alright, Lord Glorfindel?"

"Packs? How many Packs are there?" He asked instead, ignoring her question.

"That I know of, there are about a couple dozen, with fifteen to twenty-five members in each pack. Why?"

"How on earth do the Humans not know about _werewolves_?" Erestor questioned, an incredulous look on his face.

"Well, werewolves look human…They retain their human shape and turn _into_ wolves. They are a little smaller than those Wargs…but they look like normal wolves."

"How peculiar." Gandalf spoke, leaning back in his seat. "And all of these creatures you've spoken of. They can do either good or bad?"

Meara nodded, "Most are just mischievous by nature; they don't actually intend harm, but if harm does happen, it doesn't particularly affect them, moral wise; unless threatened, they would most likely do it again. The most "human"—she made air quotes around the word—"are the merfolk, dragons, and druids. The vampires and werewolves…since they were once human, it depends on what kind of person they were."

"What about the elves?" Arwen asked tenderly.

Meara bit her finger. She wasn't sure how to explain them. At least not to their counter parts. "Well…"

"Go on." Erestor sniffed.

"Their about five feet tall…usually…and most appear as children…they have wings, males usually have small iridescent wings like a dragonfly and the females usually have large colorful wings like a butterfly."

The room was silent as everyone stared at her open-mouthed. "They are also quite wary of outsiders. They've only ever let one outsider into their realm and that's the only reason why I know of them. Most do not know they exist. I think only the Great Spirits know of them."

"What are these Great Spirits?" Gandalf asked in curiosity, the first to come out of the shocked stupor.

"It's hard to describe them. They mainly take the shape of Man but they have an animal form as well. There are no two Great Spirits that have the same form. I've only met one. He was Raven, the Trickster."

"I take it his animal form is a raven." Lord Glorfindel spoke sarcastically.

"Yes, actually." Meara sniffed, leaning back in her chair, "They don't concern themselves with names. They refer to themselves as Brother Raven or Sister Otter. They are the closest magical being to a god."

There was silence, "Does your world have gods?"

Meara nodded, "Yes, but they made a pact long ago not to interfere with the lower beings affairs. Mainly Humans, since their so easy to influence."

Lord Glorfindel watched her a moment, "You don't seem to consider yourself as 'human'."

Meara wanted to give herself credit as she didn't stiffen up visibly or react violently to the accusation. She simply blinked slowly at him. She came up with a half-lie.

"That's because I'm not. Well, not entirely anyways." Meara said softly, "My grandfather on my mother's side is a druid." Her grandfather actually was a druid, but because her mother was turned into a werewolf, the druid bloodline in her completely vanished. She left that part out.

"What is a druid?" Arwen questioned, seeming to be the only one that wasn't giving her a wary look.

"Kind of like a wise person. Male druids have certain powers, depending on the region and god they serve. Female druids tend to have foresight, but it's exceedingly rare. My mother was only half-druid, so while she has the wisdom of a druid, she was still mortal."

Lord Glorfindel blinked at her, "That's how she knew about the witch to go to."

"Yes." Meara gave a humorless smile. She didn't like lying to them. Not while they were trying to help her. It made her feel bad, but she didn't want them to know she was what she was. Her gaze shifted to Lord Elrond when he asked about her mother and the witch. Meara retold her small half-truth to him, leaning back in her seat feeling mentally exhausted.

"I believe that will be enough for one day," Gandalf suggested, looking to Lord Elrond with an amused smile. Lord Elrond stood, bowing to her and then Gandalf.

"Yes," Lord Elrond spoke, "Come, it is well past midnight. Let Lady Meara get some much needed rest."

Arwen curtsied to Meara, much to her surprise, with a small smile on her face and an open friendliness. Meara smiled to her, bowing her head in respect. Meara hadn't spent much time with Arwen, nor has she actually spoken to her, but it was easy to see that Arwen was a kind soul, and that was enough for Meara to instantly have respect for her—Meara knew how hard it could be to be kind and it wasn't easy. She knew that for a fact. After Elrohir and Elladan bid her goodnight and left, Meara was left alone with Lord Glorfindel, Lord Elrond and Gandalf the Gray.

"Meara, it's come to my understanding that you are a highly skilled warrior, not just from your encounter with the orcs when you first arrived, but also with your spar earlier today with Lord Glorfindel." He was watching her in both a curious manner and a serious one, and it made Meara wary. "Exactly why is a human woman skilled in such battle?"

Meara frowned, wondering if she should just tell them and get it over with, or lie again. The latter won. "I was trained because I am…sort of like a keeper. It's my job to hunt and kill the creatures that are both breaking the laws that the immortals have agreed upon and leaving obvious evidence of their existence."

Lord Glorfindel looked at her like she was crazy, "You?"

Meara frowned, rolling her eyes, "Not just me, I was part of an organization. It consisted of many different races and we were split up into teams of two."

Gandalf had amusement in his eyes, along with curiosity, "And who was your partner? Or what was your partner?"

Meara shrugged, "He was a Small One. His name was Algernon."

"Small One?"

"Yes, they are about six inches tall with the strength of a dragon, they can run faster than the eye can see and are guardians of the forests."

"How interesting." Gandalf mused, seeming to draw in on himself in thought.

Meara rubbed her forehead, irritation starting to get the better of her, "If it is alright with you, I would like to retire to my rooms."

Lord Elrond arched a brow, but allowed her to pass, Lord Glorfindel coming into step beside her. Meara glanced at him, but otherwise didn't acknowledge him. That is until he very gently drew her to a stop just before she turned the hall. Meara gave him an impatient look, wondering what he could possibly want now.

"You are keeping something from everyone."

Meara looked at him blankly, and then slowly arched a brow, "And what, pray tell, gave you that idea?"

Lord Glorfindel's eyes narrowed dangerously at Meara, giving her the hint that she should tread twice as carefully as she did before. "You are hiding something and I am going to find out what."

Meara rolled her eyes, "It's in people's nature to hide things, Lord Glorfindel. The elves hold many secrets, why am I any different?"

She began to walk off, a frown on her face. He knew something, but he didn't know what. Meara knew she would have to act extremely human from now on out. She needed to forget things, to slip up, make mistakes. That or she needed to leave, and she didn't know enough to leave. Not yet, anyways. Lord Glorfindel called out to her, "Your secrets can be dangerous."

Meara's shoulders tensed ever so slightly as she paused in her walk. "All secrets are dangerous, that is _why_ they are secrets."

Before Glorfindel could say more, Meara disappeared around the corner.

 **If y'all have questions or are confused about anything, just let me know, I tend to not explain things well especially in story form. which is kind of weird. but anyways, please review, and I will get back to you on those questions/comments**


	6. Chapter 6: Bree and Memory Lane

**Sorry this took forever. I started college and it's a bitch.**

Four years passed quickly in Rivendell. Meara, with the help of Elladan and Elrohir, surfed through the scrolls and texts in the library coming to no luck. However, Meara learned a great deal about Middle-Earth—its history, its important figures, and its evils. She still sparred and practiced with Lord Glorfindel, the twins and anyone else who wished to participate. She had slowed her movements a great deal, going as far as to drop her sword a couple of times. Meara purposely kept her arrows hitting either the inner ring or outer, hardly ever making a bullseye. As for the throwing knives…she allowed herself to excel at those, of course she never allowed herself to make three killing throws in a row. She took pride into the throwing knives that Lord Elrond gifted to her. Yes, they were made of pure silver with leather grips, but Meara gladly dealt with the burning sensation.

It was when she was sitting in the gardens, shining her knives when a shadow blocked the sun. Meara glanced up, giving the elf a once over and then bowed her head in respect, before murmuring, "My Lord," as a way of greeting. When she went back to cleaning her blades, after a moment, she noticed the shadow did not leave. Looking up, she gave this unfamiliar elf lord a quizzical look, before moving her weapons aside, allowing room on the bench she sat on. "Would you like to sit down, my lord?"

At first, the elf did not move, simply raising a mighty eyebrow with the barest hint of amusement. When she simply watched him with a blank stare, his lip quirked upward and he took a seat beside her. Meara went back to shining her knives, her fingers carefully wrapped in cloth. She wondered at this elf lord, as he seemed to be haughtier than the elves that she's met. That and his scent was unfamiliar, a smell of berries and fresh leaves. Meara could feel his eyes on her form as she set her last knife in its place on the leather belt they came with.

"You seem to be well skilled in battle, my lady." The elf lord observed. Meara glanced at him as she began to inspect the arrows she made the other day. He truly didn't seem like the other elves. For starters, while there were blonde elves strewn about, this elf had hair so blonde, it glowed. Not to mention it was stick straight, a strange contrast to her loose curls. His gray eyes were unwavering as he looked her in the eye sending a chill down Meara's back.

"Indeed I am, My Lord." She went back to her weapons, taking out her arrows to inspect, setting aside any arrow that didn't meet her standards. She paused when she saw one move without her touching it. She looked at the elf lord with slight curiosity as he inspected the arrow she just discarded.

"These are not of elven make, yet they are very fine. For human standards, anyways." He commented, turning the white arrow shaft over to look at the arrow head. "This is stone, not silver, and the shaft…this shaft is made from a tree I've never seen before. Where did you get these?"

Meara picked up another arrow, inspecting it for perfection. "I made them. The stone is obsidian, and the shaft is made from a tree called Redwood, mostly found in the northern regions of Rivendell."

At the silence that ensued, Meara glanced up at the elven lord and noted the disbelieving look on his face. She shrugged her shoulders at him, returning to dividing the two dozen or so arrows into two piles. "And what are you doing with these arrows?"

"Separating the perfect arrows from the arrows that need to be fixed."

More silence. Meara glanced at him, finding him studying her arrow with a thoughtful look. After a small moment, he set the arrow back into the pile he grabbed it from. Silently, he took another arrow from the other pile, and studied it. She gave him an amused smile when he nodded and set the arrow down where he received it. "You must be greatly skilled if you can make arrows such as these, they could be on par with the arrows from Mirkwood, maybe even Lothlórien."

Meara had heard of these two names; they were other elven kingdoms that existed throughout the realm of Middle-Earth. Somehow, she felt like she'd been dealt an insult, mainly from the human comment, but if you ignored the growing a tail and fangs bit every month and the heightened senses, she was pretty much human. Sort of.

"Ah, King Thranduil, I see you have met Lady Meara," Lord Elrond appeared before them in a flurry of robes as he walked into the garden. Meara gave a respectful bow of her head, before glancing at the elf- _king_ sitting beside her. "She is my guest until she finds a way to her home."

King Thranduil glanced at her as he stood, giving her a quizzical look, "I see."

Meara gathered her arrows, placing them in the quiver and slinging that, her sword and her knives over her shoulder. "If you will excuse me, my lords, it is getting rather late."

She only waited for Elrond's nod of approval before leaving in a whirl wind of lavender skirts. Meara was rather surprised, to be honest. In her time perusing through the scrolls and texts with Elladan and Elrohir, she hadn't really come across the word _king_ since the fall of Gil-Gallad, and that was some time ago. Also, they didn't refer to their lands as _kingdoms_ but more so as realms and it threw Meara for a loop on discovering she was speaking casually to an elven-king about _arrows_. It all seemed ridiculous really. However, if Meara were to think about it, Lord Elrond was similar to that of a king himself.

Shaking her head, Meara prepared herself for the evening meal, bathing and changing into a forest green dress that complimented her darkened skin beautifully. She braided back her hair and made her way down the hall, her bare feet making a hardly audible pit-pat noise on the stone floor. It was a habit she had formed to never wear shoes, at least inside the halls. It irked Lord Elrond to no end and highly amused the other elven lords. Honestly, Meara didn't wear the dainty slippers provided for her because they made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Each shoe was handmade and intricately decorated, and with Meara's grand tendencies to randomly go out into the woods, the training grounds, the stables; she didn't want to ruin them. They were meant for a lady and a lady she was not.

As Meara headed for the usual direction of the dining hall, a servant stepped from behind the wall, bowing slowly to her. "If you'll excuse me, milady, but Lord Elrond requested you dine with he and his guest."

Meara acknowledged the servant, following the elf-servant to a private dining hall. The table was large enough to seat five, the circular table sat on a pavilion-like balcony over-seeing a beautiful view of a part of Rivendell and its scenery. Seated at the table were none other than Lord Elrond and his two sons and King Thranduil, all looking at her with small smiles. Well Elladan and Elrohir were grinning like mischievous faeries, but that was normal. Meara bowed respectfully to her host and gave a polite nod of the head to King Thranduil. This seemed to both amuse and displease the King at once.

"Tell me, Lady Meara," King Thranduil spoke, leaning towards her as she sat—between Elladan and Elrohir. "Is it normal for Man to be so disrespectful or do you lack any respect to give?"

Lord Elrond looked slightly alarmed, as did the twins, but Meara sat taller, levelling her gaze with Lord Thranduil's. "It is in my nature to give respect when it is earned, my lord. Not because you wear a crown."

Thranduil raised a brow, "Is that so?"

Meara just stared at him, her gaze holding no humor or friendliness. "It will take more than a conversation over _arrows_ to earn my respect, my lord."

Thranduil gave her an incredulous look, "And why should I be concerned with _your_ respect, a mere mortal?"

Meara frowned, opening her mouth to give a retort, but then shut it, hearing the servants just before they entered the private dining hall. She sent a narrow-eyed glare toward the king before looking down at the salad sitting in front of her. She ate in silence, listening to the conversation that the elven lords had.

"They are beginning to call the forest Mirkwood." Thranduil spoke, irritation laced in his voice.

"And these _spiders_ ; they are not the cause of it?" Lord Elrond asked.

"I do not think so; for now we are keeping them out of the boundaries of the Woodland Realm."

Meara sighed, remembering a brief time of fire and roaring water, "That is not wise."

King Thranduil looked to her with fire in his eyes, "Oh and do you, mortal, know of what is wise?"

"I understand your thinking, my lord. Why should you concern yourself with matters outside of your borders?" Meara raised a brow at the King of Mirkwood, "I know of a king who had the same idea, and in the end, his kingdom was destroyed and over half his people were killed. If you ignore the problem, it will not be solved."

"You are but a child," King Thranduil said with narrowed eyes at her, "Do not tell me how to run my kingdom."

Irritation filled Meara as she stood, "I did not tell you anything but _advice_ , Lord Thranduil."

With that said, Meara stood and quickly left the dining hall.

That same night, Meara prepared her horse, a brave stallion she named Lir, after the Gaelic god of the sea, to reflect the stallions blue coat. She strapped her sword to the horses' saddle, already wearing her throwing knives belt, and her quiver and arrow on her back. She just mounted on the horses' back when Lord Elrond, Lord Thranduil and three unfamiliar elves walked over to her.

"Where are you going?" Lord Elrond asked with a frown on his face.

"Hunting. I'll be back." As an afterthought she shook her head, "Eventually."

All the elves look startled as she made a strange noise with her tongue, urging the horse into a gallop. Meara decided to make her way to Bree, a town that reminded her much of her days in wet Maine in the 18th century. Meara didn't just make her own weapons for fun, she also made them for other archer's, earning money to make journeys such as these. She reached Bree without trouble the next night.

Meara went straight to the Prancing Pony, guiding Lir to the stables. She grabbed the stable hand by the collar when she saw the twinkle in his eye as he gazed upon her sword. "If that sword is not in its sheath and on my saddle when I return for it, there will be death this night. Do you understand?"

When fear welled into the man's eye, she released him and quickly left, throwing the head stable hand a small satchel with the required amount of money. When she entered the run down tavern, a few people turned to look at her, a small fraction of surprise on several people's faces. Meara supposed it was because she was a human woman in elven clothes, armed with weapons. Ignoring them all, she made a reservation for a room and then sat at an empty table. She asked politely for a bar-wench to fetch her an ale. Looking for a distraction, Meara looked from patron to patron, noting the rowdiness of the crowd this night. She also noted that the three serving maids were having a bit of trouble with keeping up with the place. It made Meara smile, then grimace.

Meara had worked in a tavern once, she knew how hard it could be—especially to keep your cool. But these were human women; she was sure they felt fear on many occasions. There were times when Meara should have been afraid, but being what she was, and _who_ she was, Meara stared down that threat in the face and destroyed it.

The woman brought Meara her ale, skittering away from a group of very drunken men that cat-called to her and attempted to pinch her arse. Meara looked around the bar, noticing that it was actually quite similar to the tavern she worked at, only her place of work had a large fire place in the center for winter get-togethers. She'd been working at the North Pine Tavern for nearly a year, the season of spring beginning to make itself known to the cold population.

Meara, being exceedingly straight forward, blunt and as the other bar-maiden's described, scary, she dealt with the more…frightening patrons. A regular of these patrons, a man of a tall size for that time period, had been giving her and her other co-workers a strange look that night.

It was no secret that the workers of North Pine Tavern were given room and board with a small amount of pay—what was a secret, is that this room and board was down the street and around the corner. The morning bar-maidens came in before dawn, when everyone still slept. And the afternoon bar-maidens left well after dark when the streets were empty of all. When the morning bar maidens left, they took a shortcut, off the main roads, and in more secluded forest areas. It was efficient and less scary for them, however, the afternoon bar maids could not use this path, as it would grow too dark and too dangerous for them. Only Meara did not fear the woods, however, as a sense of duty, she walked with the rest of the girls at night, making sure they returned safely to their rooms unless they went with a beau.

Meara had narrowed her eyes at this hulk of a man, one she _knew_ to be completely human. He didn't seem to find her intimidating, which was a mistake on his part. The moment the bar had closed and the three bar-maids she worked with opened the door to leave, she knew he was out there waiting for them.

"Close the door, Elizabeth." Meara said with a hard tone. Elizabeth had been the most wary of the four bar-maids. She was young and if any were being honest with themselves, a true beauty. She was far too kind and soft spoken to be a bar maid—probably why she only served drinks and was allowed to stay behind the counter with Winston, the owner of the tavern. Elizabeth, with wide eyes, shut the door.

Meara turned to the eldest, if she didn't count her immortality, "Cornelia, lead Elizabeth and Blaire to the house from the side door. If there are men waiting for you there, scream as loud as you can. If they try to take you, leave as much of a trail as you can. I will get help."

It was something that Meara hardly concerned herself with, but she had grown attached to her coworkers. These rowdy girls, who didn't care as much for propriety as for having a good time. If this man had been of the supernatural she would have no qualms about killing him, but this was not an order, and though this was taking place in pack territory, it was not to protect the secret of the werewolves. Taking a breath, Meara opened the door and stepped out of the Tavern. She locked the door behind her, pretending to be closing up. The man's vantage point never allowed for him to see the actual door. He didn't know that Elizabeth opened the door slightly and then shut it. His ears were not that well trained. When Meara left the safety of the tavern and began to walk, she heard him. He walked at a slow pace behind her. A cruel smirk made its way on Meara's face a she turned around to look at him.

If she were human, he would have been far enough away that she wouldn't hear his steps, but she was not human. The man looked slightly alarmed at realizing he'd been caught, but a sneering smile slowly creeped onto his face as he strolled closer. Like most of the lower class, he was mostly dressed in hides and old clothing. His hair was long and tied roughly at the nape of his neck. He had stubble on his face and old scars laying beneath that. A human would ignore the scratches, they could barely be seen from all the stubble growing over them anyways. Meara had known what those scars were though. She'd seen many of those. Claw marks, or, since they weren't nearly as deep or jagged to be claws, nail marks. As a werewolf Meara knew the thrill of a hunt, but as a woman, a cold fury swept throughout her body.

"You have teased me for the last time, wench." The man said, hungry eyes roving over her body as he came closer, "I wanted the young one, but you will do just fine."

She let a feral grin grow on her face that made the man pause, "You have made a grave mistake, human, I am no prey of yours."

He scoffed, but then his face paled when Meara let her wolf come forward, making her eyes glow golden in the dark, "You will find that, you are _my_ prey."

Fear grew in the man's eyes, he turned and ran, sensing that he was in mortal danger. Meara let him turn the corner before letting out a low laugh and stalking after him. She had enjoyed frightening him, she had enjoyed herding him until he was so frightened that he went to the authorities and admitted to raping over twenty women and killing several men.

Meara quit her job after that and went to another part of her fathers' territory; that was when she realized that her self-control was becoming frayed. She was working at another tavern, when nearly the same thing happened. Nearly. No, this man did not turn himself in, this man did not allow himself to be herded nor did he try and commit his crime alone. Instead of letting him go after his fear overtook him to the point that he wet himself, Meara took his heart out of his chest before mauling him. Then her coworkers screamed, alerting her that they were in trouble. She had run faster than she'd ever allowed herself to in the presence of humans. When she found her coworkers, one was half naked and hardly visible underneath a large man, the other was being held down and forced to watch as a handful of men _took turns_.

Meara walked towards them, causing them all to pause as they took in her bloodied hands and clothes. Then they all looked at her glowing gold eyes with wide eyes. She figured she must have been a frightening sight as none dared move.

"You will _get off this woman immediately_." She spoke, holding down the malicious growls that wanted to erupt from her chest. No one moved. "Or I will kill all of you as I did your friend."

When no one moved again, she moved with lightning speed to the men forcing the youngest bar-maid to watch the rape of their coworker. Meara slit one mans' throat with her nails, then turned to the other and twisted his head all the way around with the strength of her blow. She looked at the fearful gaze of her young coworker, before turning away and tearing apart any man in her vicinity. Her two coworkers held onto each other as she finished her work and stood in a bloody puddle, coated in mud and blood with bodies strewn about her.

"You…you're a monster."

Meara turned to her coworkers, fear in their eyes. "Yes, I am."

Two arrows whizzed by her head and imbedded themselves in their chests. Meara didn't even flinch. She turned to her father and fellow beta wolf. Her father was looking at the carnage his daughter caused. He looked both impressed and angry at the same time.

"As admirable as the reason was," He began, staring at her with annoyance on his face, "This is unacceptable, Meara."

"500." Was all she said, turning away and staring at the dead bodies of the two women she was beginning to consider friends.

"What?" Her father asked in confusion.

"It's been nearly 500 years since I last lost control, Father." She turned away from the bodies and began to retreat into the forest.

Meara shook the memory from her head, frowning to herself. It has been ages since she cared to remember that. To her it had been nearly three thousand years, but to her father, to the rest of the pack, it has been a mere three hundred. Rubbing her forehead, Meara swallowed the rest of her ale, finding the place mostly empty and it well past midnight. She gave the bar-maid a more than plenty amount of money, which brought both tears and awe to the woman's eyes. She retired to her room, and tried to forget about the memory.

That was when she had fallen to such a point in her life that she remained a wolf for nearly fifty years, roaming in the wilds of North America. That was where she met the Great Spirit, Raven. Like most true ravens, he'd been attracted to her wolf form, and as a bird began to follow her about. At first, she didn't know who or what he was, just that he wasn't a normal bird, and when the native people stumbled upon her and the, larger than normal, raven, they confused her for the Great Spirit Wolf and it did not help that she accidently turned in front of them. Because of the language barrier, she couldn't explain to them that she was _not_ the Great Spirit Wolf. It finally took the _real_ Great Spirit Wolf to threaten Raven that if he didn't help explain to the people who and what I really was, he'd pluck all of his feathers off. In the end, the people were rather accepting of Meara and what she was, going as far to integrate her into their society. She learned many things from them. For starters, they helped improve her skills of making clothes from animal hides, and they taught her how to make arrows. She has stayed with them for close to twenty years, before she finally went back to the settlements.

Meara smiled sadly as she let herself drift into sleep. That tribe no longer exists.


	7. Gone Again

**Hey guys I know it's been forever since I've updated. Sorry bout that! I know when break rolls around I'll be more on top of the updating. This chapter is a long one, it was supposed to be two, but I condensed and shortened the second chapter, so toward the end it might seem a little rushed. So YAY this is the last "filler" chapter before we get into The Hobbit portion of the story. Whoop Whoop! Also guys please remember I've just cracked open the Silmarillion and I'm half-way through The Hobbit, so if my info is off, don't have a cow about it. Not to be rude or anything...but yea...PS there is a nudity scene but given that Meara is a werewolf it was bound to happen anyways. Just a heads up for those who are uncomfortable with that sort of thing. Any who enjoy!**

The next day, Meara mounted Lir and began her short journey back to Rivendell. It was just past midday when she came across Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel, who seemed to have brightened considerably when they caught sight of her blue roan stallion galloping over the fields towards them.

Meara sighed as she pulled up to them, slowing the horse down.

"You've been gone nearly three days." Lord Elrond stated.

"I needed to think." Meara stated.

"Did Lord Thranduil anger you that much you would recklessly stay overnight in the wild?" Elrond asked, Glorfindel looking slightly confused.

"I was not angry but irritated." Meara said stiffly, having completely forgotten. Then she softened her shoulders and sighed, "Besides, I stayed in Bree last night."

Lord Elrond began to speak, but Meara tuned him out, turning her attention to the north. A frown pulled at her lips. She could hear the thud of feet on the ground, the yips of Wargs, and the black speech of the orcs. Meara let out a Gaelic curse word, completely befuddling Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel.

She began to string her bow and knock an arrow, "There are Orcs approaching."

Both their heads whipped to the northern horizon as they too began to hear the excited yips of Wargs on a hunt. They both gave her a queer look but quickly unsheathed their swords as the Wargs broke over the crest of the hill. Not really caring for keeping looks at the moment, Meara sent arrow after arrow into the heads of the Orcs, having her horse gallop in circles around their immediate area. She just killed a warg with a shot into its eye when she felt a stinging sensation in her shoulder, the force completely knocking her off the back of Lir. A large arrow stuck out of her right shoulder, sending tendrils of pain shooting up and down her body.

Meara growled low, hearing Lord Elrond call out in alarm to her. Shakily, she got to her feet, and pulled out a dagger. She'd never thrown left handed before, and she wasn't going to try either. Gripping the leather handle, Meara waited for one to attack her, and she was not let down. With a battle cry that could rival any king, Meara began to clumsily take down wargs. She had several bite marks on her arms and legs, but those healed almost instantly as she shoved knife after knife into the Wargs eyes and necks. She lost her last knife when there no longer stood a pack or rider.

On a knee, Meara grimaced, wrapping her fingers around the arrow shaft. She knew it needed to be pulled out; she could smell the poison. If the source of it remained in her system there was no way she could heal or have her metabolism extract the poison if it just kept flowing in. With a deep breath, Meara summoned as much strength as she could and yanked the arrow out. She allowed a cry of pain, feeling the barbed arrow rip more flesh as it was removed.

She was drenched in sweat and knew that she was more than likely extremely pale. Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel were beside her almost immediately, frowning and speaking in elvish…Sindarin. Lord Elrond looked slightly angry as he inspected her shoulder. "You should not have removed the arrow, Lady Meara!"

Breathing deeply, Meara moved his hands away, "I will heal; I just need sleep…and meat. I need something other than veggies to recover from this. And _a lot_ of it."

Lord Elrond frowned, "Lady Meara, Orcs poison their weapons, you need medicine."

Meara scoffed, moving to stand, "I am not your normal human, Lord Elrond. I heal faster than most."

It was true, her injury had already stopped bleeding, but it was still raw and gaping open. As it will be until she gets true protein and a lot of rest. This was the first time she'd been injured since appearing in Middle-Earth. They didn't know she healed spectacularly quickly, or that poisons didn't really work on her because her metabolism was too fast for them to work. Only a few poisons in the world were effective on a werewolf and she doubted if they even existed here.

Ignoring Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel's protests, she whistled for her horse, and climbed up onto his back. She barely looked at the two elves as she spoke, "Are you joining me back to Rivendell or are you both going to wait here?"

She urged Lir into a gallop, grimacing slightly as her movements irritated the wound. Meara could feel her energy fading on her, and the wolf beginning to try and take over. With a small growl, she shoved away how tired she was feeling, and focused on beating down the beast inside her. An injured wolf was a dangerous wolf and only a wolf's mate or Alpha could get close to them. Seeing as Meara lacked both of those, she needed to make sure she _did not_ lose control.

When Lir cantered into the courtyard of Rivendell, Lord Glorfindel and Lord Elrond hot on her heels, she slid off the blue roan's back and trudged to her rooms. "I'll need meat, Lord Elrond if I hope to recover from this quickly."

Meara had attempted to say it loudly, but it came out more as a mutter. She used the last of her energy to reach her rooms, ignoring a surprised looking Lord Thranduil. Meara shut her door and lazily changed into a night shift and climbed into the bed, just as there was a sharp knock at the door. Lord Elrond, Lord Glorfindel and Lord Thranduil marched in, a worried elf-maid pushing a cart in front of her with cooked meat on it. Meara wondered at how quickly that was caught and prepared, but her mind swiftly changed gears into eating mode. She ate slowly, aware that she had guests. Meara eyed the three lords carefully. After swallowing her rather large bites, she quirked a brow. "Well, don't just stand there like wall flowers, if you have a question please ask."

"You don't seem to be that injured, if you can still insult people that brashly," Lord Glorfindel stated plainly.

"You were shot with an orc arrow and yet you still move about as if you were merely cut." Lord Thranduil stated, a little distracted at the fact she was eating an entire _boar_ by herself. "You seem to enjoy your meats."

Meara swallowed thickly, "I do not need meat to survive unless I am injured. The energy it provides helps the healing process go by faster."

"Speaking of healing process, I need to look at that." Lord Elrond stated, pointing to the shoulder of her gown that was beginning to look a sickly dank color. Meara peered down at it with a yawn.

"Oh, I forgot it does that with poisons." Meara said absently, "It's only the poison being expelled from the wound."

Meara pulled down the cloth so they could see the gaping wound. It wasn't bleeding, but it was expelling a mucky looking liquid that had Lord Elrond frowning. "Is this normal?"

Meara nodded. Finishing off half of the boar, she lay back with a wince. "The poison is being expelled but now I actually have to heal. I might sleep for a day or two, but since this kind of poison is foreign to my body it may take longer."

Before she could say more, Meara drifted into a slumber, her grip on the beast tightening as she travelled through the dream world.

Meara had slept for three days, worrying most everyone until she finally woke up, handing out her sarcastic remarks to anyone who seemed to overly worry about her. She never truly came to terms with Lord Thranduil, though it appeared that they both enjoyed each other's company. Or at least Meara enjoyed making the King of Mirkwood seethe silently and plot her destruction. Though she never said, he did earn her respect as she learned all that he did from the histories in the library, and Lord Glorfindel's recounts of past events.

Another year had easily slipped past, giving Meara another motivation to search for a spell home. For the past five years, Meara had snuck away on the nights of the full moon, taking in her beastly form until the sun broke over the horizon. Most nights, she would hunt, and eat her fill of meat, and then she would patrol around the borders of Rivendell protecting the lovely place from unwanted visitors.

Today was such a day for her as she calmly tacked up Lir and tied her sword to his saddle. At first, Lord Elrond had been confused of her monthly 'night-trips' into the forest, but he let her be, taking it as some sort of ritual she did back at home as well (which it sort of was.) On some occasion, Elladan and Elrohir would try and follow her, but she would always catch them, and throw them off the trail easily. She was quite expecting the two ellon to be hounding her today, but she was instead surprised to see Lord Glorfindel coming to stand beside her.

"What exactly do you do when you go out on these nights?" He asked, a frown on his face.

"I hunt," Meara stated simply, "Moonlight is the best light to hunt by, and there is a goddess in my world we honor by hunting under her gaze."

Glorfindel was silent as he frowned at her. "You honor a goddess by hunting under the full moon?"

Meara could see his confusion, "Her name is Artemis. She is the Goddess of the Hunt and not a goddess you want to displease might I add."

He shook his head, beginning to turn back around, then he stopped looking over his shoulder at her. "What do you actually do when you are out there?"

Meara lifted a brow, but said nothing, mounting Lir and sending him into a light canter out the front gates. She had been deceiving them for so long now that it became habitual to stay silent than to spew another lie. Though she supposed that Artemis bit was lie enough when she truly never worshipped the Goddess, oh she believed she was out there, just like she believed in the other four thousand or so gods out there, but she did not worship them. Only the Earth Goddess did she truly believe in. Meara sighed, shaking such thoughts from her mind.

She rode until she was near the outer borders of Rivendell, just before the river. Lir shook his head in slight irritation, knowing what was happening. The first time Lir had been in her presence when she changed, he had reared, screaming in fright until he slowly became frozen in place. After a moment, Meara had approached the horse—in her wolf form—and allowed the horse to inspect her before he smacked her good with his front hooves. She spent that entire night and the next three full moon's getting the horse used to her presence as a wolf. Meara suspects that now the horse understands that she won't try and harm him at all in this form. There was one moment though, when she found herself in the midst of changing and a wild fox had begun to assault, Lir came to her rescue, sending the fox off with an incredibly damaged tail. She was sure it would be a few years before the hairs began to grow back. With a shake of her head and small laugh at the memory, Meara brought Lir to a halt and listened, shutting her eyes.

Birds sang to each other, small rodents scurried under the fallen leaves, and bugs called to one another. Next, she inhaled, taking in the scents surrounding her. She smelled Lir, the leather of his saddle and her own clothes, the strange scent of the pines in this area and the flowery and herbal scents of a multitude of plants. She sneezed, shaking her head slightly. Meara dismounted from Lir, glancing up at the sky. The sun was beginning to descend, giving way to the moon and stars. She grimaced, feeling the tightening of her body as the effect of the moon began to take its effect on her.

The moon of Middle-Earth was closer to the planet than that of the moon of her home planet, and so everything happened earlier than expected. And more painful than expected. Meara began to untack Lir, leaving his bridle on to keep him from running off. She placed her belt of knives into one of the saddle bags, taking her bow and quiver from her back and keeping them tied to the saddle. Then she took the saddle and hefted it onto a fallen log hidden in the bushes. Only an elf would see it, and since she was far from any roads, she doubted anyone would find it. Then Meara undressed herself, folding her clothes up and placing them at the base of the tree Lir was tied to.

As a werewolf, becoming naked was a natural thing, and when you become naked as many times as a werewolf, you tend to get over the feeling of being exposed. Being a werewolf her entire life, Meara was used to it, where most werewolves preferred to change with a blanket draped over them, making the process all that more painful. Truthfully, one could change while dressed, however, due to the change of shape and size, one could strangle themselves while changing. It also was a waste of clothing, and while most werewolves were well enough off to be able to buy new clothes, most were in the habit of _not_ destroying clothing.

So Meara stood naked amongst the trees and bushes, looking more like a spirit than anything as the wind lifted her dark hair up from her back. If one were to watch the spectacle, they would be impressed with the fine view they had found. Werewolves are fit creatures as it is near impossible for them to be fat when most live on a diet of protein and burn calories faster than they can consume them. So when gazing at Meara, one would note that there wasn't a single ounce of extra fat on her body. Her arms were toned with muscle as were her legs. And there wasn't a single scar on her body. Not even a tattoo, as they were essentially scars as well.

As the sun lowered more, Meara slowly descended into a crouching position, bracing her arms on the ground. One would probably look at this act strangely until you heard the loud crack that drew a gasp from her mouth. All at once, Meara's lax positon turned rigid as the sound of her bones snapping came to her ears, her body jerking as they repositioned themselves. It always started in the center of her back, the pain automatically having her arch her back outwards, then her shoulders would be forced out of place and shift so that they rested lower. Her fingers were the worst part. It always felt as if they had been shattered, one bone at a time, all the while the skin slowly peeled off like it was a sunburn. The tail grew out as her back legs repositioned themselves, her skin breaking and peeling off her to reveal her fur beneath. Her head was always last, and with a painful grunt that slowly turned more animal-like, her face elongated and the skin flayed away, her brown eyes melting into a golden glow.

Panting heavily, the wolf lay still for, at the most, five minutes, before carefully standing and shaking herself, fluffing out her fur that gleamed in the moonlight. In all, her transformation took ten minutes, but it was the most painful ten minutes of her life, and she would take those ten minutes over the fifteen to twenty minutes of changing that the other werewolves went through. With a huff, the wolf trotted cautiously through the woods, lowering her head to the ground to sniff at the ground. Scents curled into her nose, letting her know what has been there; what _shouldn't_ be there.

For a while, she sensed nothing, and so took up her time in hunting. She was currently stalking a couple of deer, her fur acting as camouflage as she stalked passed them. The doe seemed the easier of the two to catch. Meara's gaze shifted to the buck. He was large, with antlers that a hunter would boast about if he had caught the poor beast with a bullet. Meara eyed the antlers. The doe would be easier to catch, indeed, but also the safest. She could survive a gutting unlike the natural wolves of her world, but it would take time and a lot of energy to heal from it. It's a risk she wasn't going to take. So, intentionally, she spooked the two deer, making a low growl noise. The pair took off with Meara running after them close behind. It was easy separating the two. She herded the doe away from the buck, cornering the poor herbivore in a thicket too dense for the deer to break through.

The deer knew it was done for as the wolf that hunted it made for its throat, a streak of silver and gold against the dark greens and browns of the forest. Meara, being more of the humane wolves, went for the jugular of the deer, giving the frightened beast a quick death before she started to eat. She ate the amount that would usually be split amongst a pack of ten or more. Meara was still feeding on the deer, when a noise that didn't belong caught her attention. Slowly, she lifted her head, her tongue dragging across her upper muzzle to clean it of the blood. Her gold eyes gleamed as they searched for the source of the noise. It had sounded like the scuffle of a boot against wood. She perked her ears, wondering maybe if one of those rangers were nearby. If so, she was most likely in danger of being killed. Or, at the least, fatally wounded. Her head tilted, she was rather curious, really on who would try to sneak up on a wolf eating. Then again, if wargs were as stupid as their rider's they may not notice when someone was sneaking up on them as they fed.

Meara made a decision then, hoping she wasn't right and it was just some scavenger looking to distract her from her meal. None the less, she abandoned the carcass, turning tail and bounding out of the thicket in three large paces. When she heard a horse, that wasn't Lir, she knew she was being hunted. Meara turned around, hoping to spy her pursuers face. She saw golden hair reflect the moonlight and felt her heart sink as she began to run faster. She wouldn't lead him away from Rivendell, with the varying groups of orcs that turned up on random occasions, it wasn't safe to leave him on his own—even if he was a mighty Balrog slayer.

After a moment, Meara slowed down, not hearing the horse behind her. She sniffed the air, then the ground, and doubled backward, wondering if she'd lost the poor elf lord. A putrid scent came into her nose, making her cough and rub her nose into the side of her foreleg. There was only a few creatures she knew who smelled that badly—and it was only because their scents tended to mix together. Wargs and their riders. She figured she was behind them, and so followed their scent until she reached what looked like a large open plain with outcroppings of rocks and small thickets of trees. There was a flash of gold, the scream of a horse and then the excited yips of wargs. Meara's lips curled up, revealing her fangs. A small anger burned in the pit of her stomach. She threw her head back into a howl, one that called for the hunt. She could tell, as she ended the call and made her descent towards the running horse, that she confused everyone—Lord Glorfindel, the Wargs and the warg riders.

Glorfindel saw her first. It appeared that she was headed straight for him, a silver streak with two burning golden eyes. She saw him prepare his bow, and take aim. She huffed, knowing that if he took a shot, she'd most likely die, what with the silver headed arrows. Meara needn't have worried though. With as fast as she was running, compared to how fast his horse was running, he'd have to be incredibly quick and hit her point blank to make a blow. As it were, she wasn't after him or his horse. She crashed into the first warg, ripping its jugular out before it knew what hit it. The force of their collision snapped the warg riders' neck. Dropping the piece of flesh from her mouth, she went for the nearest rider, spotting the bow in its hand. Something whizzed by her ear, and embedded itself into the wargs' neck.

Meara looked at the last four riders. Only the last four riders and their wargs were lying on the ground dead. There was an arrow in two, but the rest appeared to have been killed by a sword. Meara glanced at the Balrog Slayer, her ears perked towards his movements. He was a lot stronger than he'd been letting on. Quicker too; and silent. Meara hadn't even heard him slaughter the other foul smelling creatures as she mauled the warg and its rider. She stared at him for a moment, gauging his reaction to her. He looked fearful, but it was undermined by curiosity and determination. She wondered what he was waiting for. He had his sword at the ready, the silver gleaming in the moonlight.

Meara decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, it's not like he knew it was her anyways, and trotted off, not caring if he followed her or not. She went to the stream—river—she had cleaned herself in when she first arrived. Dipping her face into the cold water she let the flow rinse off any excess blood and gore. She even opened her mouth to rinse the taste of orc and warg away—truly they did not taste good, and only the gods know where they've been. Meara raised her head expectantly when she heard the soft soles of Glorfindel's shoes hit the soft ground. A barely audible noise that sounded like a whisper to her keen ears.

The wolf wasn't all that surprised when Glorfindel walked near the edge of the riverbank. There was an intelligence to the creature, Glorfindel saw, but it didn't seem to have the standard werewolf ability to speak. That and it was small for a werewolf of Morgoth's standards. Perhaps this wasn't a werewolf. Or maybe it was a werewolf, but untouched by the darkness that is Morgoth. He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the wolf. It was female, if not for the lack of it's overly aggressive behavior, but for the feminine look to its face and legs. Her size was strange, she was nearly as big as the wargs, though clearly more powerful. Her fur was strange as well. The fur pattern wasn't like any he'd seen on any wolf, warg, or dog. Her paws were pale, almost white, and the farther it went up the more grey it became, until it reached the ridge of the wolf's back which was a strange mixture of grey and blue, almost appearing a dark silver color. That color took up most of her face and ears then narrowed into a line down her back and to the tail where it spread out until the whole tail was the same dark silver color.

Really, if it weren't for the fact that this wolf was most likely a fierce killer, he would have tried to touch the fur to see if it was as thick as it looked. He stiffened when the wolf looked at him again. Its head tilted, as if it were wondering something, then looked up at the sky. Its ears flattened. Glorfindel followed its gaze to the moon. Strange, he thought and looked back down, only to discover the wolf gone. Uneasily, he went down to the bank and looked at the prints the wolf left in the mud. Then he followed them, mounting on to his horse when the tracks became more widely spread.

Meara was hoping to lose the elf lord before the effect of the moon wore off; she had four hours, but it seemed that Lord Glorfindel was a persistent hunter. She lost him twice, and just when it seemed that she'd lost him for good, she would hear his horse, the sound of hooves on dirt. It frustrated her to no end. For her own sake she was hoping that the elf would take the hint and end this stupid hunt. Meara was able to keep him away from Lir, at least until her four hours were up, and she had no choice but to go back to the horse lest she wanted to return to Rivendell in the nude.

Meara mentally prepared herself for the confusion, the fear, and most importantly she prepared herself for an escape. Even if the elf knew she wasn't any danger to the elves or man, she wasn't entirely sure if he would allow her to live, especially with his reaction when she began to talk about werewolves. She shook the thought from her mind and focused on the matter at hand. She'd worry about it until it was actually happening. When she heard the familiar snorts of Lir, she slowed her run down to a trot, passing the horse with a little huff, and disappeared into the underbrush.

Then she stilled, and waited for Glorfindel to come into view.

The elf rode into the small clearing, looking warily at Lir. The blue roan snorted at Lord Glorfindel giving his head a shake before lowering his head to the grass to nibble on some sweet grass. Meara eyed Glorfindel warily before crawling out of the bushes and standing before the elf in a calm manner. For a tense moment, they just stared at each other, a golden eyed wolf watching a golden haired elf, and vice versa. In a blink, Lord Glorfindel had his bow ready, the arrow pointed for the wolf. To his surprise, the wolf gave a huff, and sat down as if it were a domestic animal. The wolf stared at him for a moment, before a low growl rippled through the field and the wolf crouched down. At first, Lord Glorfindel thought the wolf was going to attack, but then it made a noise almost similar to a whine. Then there was a loud crack. Lord Glorfindel watched with shock as the wolf slowly deformed itself with each crack of what he could only assume was bone. The strange fur fell away in clumps revealing dark skin glistening with sweat. A familiar head of dark curls appeared, and then Glorfindel was staring at Meara, panting with pain and exertion. When Meara lifted her head, Glorfindel lowered his bow, watching as the wolf's golden eyes slowly melted away to Meara's familiar brown eyes. Dismounting, Lord Glorfindel slowly approached Meara, his bow still in hand, though he put away the arrow. Meara kept her eyes on him as she slowly shuffled towards her clothes on her hands and knees.

"Meara?"

She ignored him as she dressed herself, her arms and legs protesting at her movements. Once she pulled on her last article of clothing, and stood, using Lir's shoulder for support, she looked at Lord Glorfindel. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost, his shoulders tense and knuckles white. "I suppose you have questions."

He was silent for a long moment, "I think I knew there was something off, but…"

Meara raised a brow, turning away from him to grab Lirs' saddle. She hefted the saddle onto the horse's back, fastening the belt and tightening it as she tried thinking of what to tell him. Mounting Lir, she gave him a smirk, shrugging her shoulders slightly, "I have strength, I can heal, I can hear better than most. Surely you don't still think I am half-druid? Not after seeing that."

"You're a werewolf. Why wouldn't you say so?"

"It is something best left in the dark, Lord Glorfindel." Meara said, a dark tone filling her voice as her eyes narrowed at the elf. She steered Lir away, breaking him into a run, leaving behind a stunned Glorfindel. She thought perhaps that he would kill her, or maybe even enslave her—of course the moment she thought it she shook the thought away. Enslavement didn't seem to be the elves thing. The killing part though…

Shaking her head, Meara drove Lir away from Rivendell and toward the mountains. It was the last time she saw Glorfindel or any of the other elves for a long while. After making a small settlement for herself at the foothills of a vast mountain range, a little too close to Rivendell for her tastes, Meara took Lir aside, stripping her weapons from the horses saddle and rode him to the edge of the river that lead passed Rivendell. With a small hum, she extended her claws, dragging the tips over the strong leather leaving behind jagged claw marks. She only made enough to make a believable attack, going as far as to even nick the poor stallion on several places. By the time she finished, Lir was breathing hard, and so was she. The blood the horse leaked on several small gashes made the wolf in her rise its head and lick its chomps. Lastly, she sliced her arm and allowed a small stream of blood to drip onto the saddle. She wondered if they would be able to tell if it was her blood or not—like some of the creatures from her home realm—but she wasn't going to take any chances. Meara took a step back from the quivering horse and drew her wolf forward just enough to change her eyes from a molten brown to a fiery gold, just enough to make the presence of a predator enough to send Lir into a frenzied dance. Taking a breath she let out an earsplitting roar that drew out a scream from the blue stallion and drove it into a top speed gallop back to Rivendell.

She didn't wait a single moment. As soon as the stallion's tail disappeared, Meara set up a scene to "fake" her death. She doubted Lord Elrond or Gandalf would fall for it, if anything she expected them to allow her space. She uses the term "allow" loosely. They _would_ give her space whether they wanted to or not.

 **I hope you guys enjoyed. If you were confused about anything please just PM me, I'll try to explain it the best of my abilities. If there was anything offensive you can also PM me, and I can talk it over with you. Thanks for reading, and please review!**


	8. Gandalf's Request

**It's been awhile, but here's chapter 8!**

Meara stared down the wizard with a great deal of disdain when he randomly appeared in the land she made part of her territory. She hadn't seen the bearded man since the day she told Lord Elrond and company of her own world and the creatures there. It's been nearly fifteen years, and just when she was beginning to get comfortable with her new surroundings and the idea that she might be stuck in Middle Earth forever.

"Now, Lady Meara, don't give me that look," The old man scolded, an amused gleam in his eyes. In answer, the wolf huffed, a silver ear twitching with irritation. The wolf continued to what she was doing—which much to her irritation was trying to pull her catch for the day, a large buck, back to her home. She had been lucky in catching him, he had been running from the wild Wargs—which were a lot larger and better looking than their captive counterparts—and the poor buck had run straight for her jaws. As irritating as it is, Meara will admit she was—only somewhat—wrong about Wargs. They had an underlying intelligence about them that seemed to only truly shine through when they weren't in the presence of Orcs. Truthfully, Meara was just angry that a creature similar to her counterpart would allow to be used as a steed—as a tool to be used for the advantage of creatures far less superior than the Wolf. Meara let out another huff as she finally pulled the buck into the clearing by the hut she lived in. Gandalf had followed respectively a few feet behind her and the deer, watching the wolf known as Lady Meara, drag the rather unusually large stag into the clearing.

It had taken him a great deal of time trying to find the werewolf—her home was easy enough to find but the actual werewolf herself was similar to trying to track down a phantom. The wizened wizard cleared his throat, drawing the golden gaze of the wolf to him, "Now, Meara, the reason I have sought you out is because I have a favor to ask of you."

Gandalf received a look from the wolf that he imagined if she were in her human form would be the equivalent to her brow raised in sarcasm along with a remark that would have ruffled some feathers. Before he could say more, the wolf dropped the deer unceremoniously to the ground and disappeared into the bungalow via large doggy door. Fifteen minutes later, Meara appeared in human form through the door dressed in deer hides. They were quite of impressive make. She wore simple trousers that were tight-fitting and dyed a deep brown color. She wore fur-lined boots over the ends, and wore an elven shirt—the one she wore when she left Rivendell for the forested mountain side. With a puff of annoyance, she tied her hair away from her face and gave Gandalf a tight-lipped smile.

"What exactly is this favor, Gandalf?"

The old man gave a wry smile as Meara led him into her humble abode—that is after she dragged the deer into a sort of butcher-like area, and hefted the beast to be hooked up to dangle off a thick tree trunk and slit it's throat for it to bleed out into a bucket. Meara rinsed her hands in what appeared to be her own version of plumbing, then looked at Gandalf who made himself comfortable on a beautifully carved chair.

"Did you make everything in here?" Gandalf asked, looking around the large room with a curious eye. He was a little surprised by her answer.

"Some of it, but most is bought from travelers or the market in Bree."

"You travel all the way to Bree?"

Meara shrugged, "Comforts of the home are a must. Now this favor, Gandalf?"

The wizard grunted, "Right. I suppose I should explain to you about The Lonely Mountain—"

"The Lonely Mountain? As in the Dwarven Kingdom that was _attacked_ by a _dragon_?" Meara interrupted. At Gandalf's confused look, she quickly added, "I didn't just sit around and do nothing in Rivendell, Gandalf, give me some credit."

The wizard chuckled in response. "Yes, well. I will be leading a company of dwarves…and a hobbit to reclaim the mountain in two months' time."

Meara lifted a brow, "And you are telling me this because…?"

"I would like you to follow the dwarves and help them." The wizard stated simply.

Meara studied Gandalf for a moment. He was leaning forward on the chair and watching her intently as she watched him. "Why would you want me to do this? And the last I heard, Dwarves aren't too keen on receiving help unless it's warranted."

"Yes, the dwarves are stubborn, that's why I want you to follow them in secret. There may be times when I cannot lead them. These particular dwarves may get into some trouble—nothing I'm sure they can't handle, but I would much appreciate a second pair of eyes on them."

Meara continued to stare at the wizard, not letting any of her thoughts show. She could see that this quest was troubling the old man, but she could also see the determination that lingered in his sea-blue eyes. His shoulders were tensed and he seemed rather insistent…

"No."

The wizard blinked. He opened his mouth to reason with the werewolf, but she was already walking out the door. He abruptly stood, and followed her out, but stopped short when he exited the hut to find Meara nowhere in sight. The wizard let out a weary sigh and made for Bree. It was worth a shot to try and convince the werewolf to be an extra set of eyes on the journey—of course he really didn't do any convincing now did he? Not that the stubborn woman would let him explain any further. He wondered idly at her abrupt answer. With an idea in his mind, the gray wizard let out a little chuckle as he dug his pipe out of his bag.

Meara doubted she fooled the wizard. Her answer was an old tactic she used to use when her father would ask her to shadow the new werewolves on their first hunt. On most occasions, the Wolf King would go with the "younger" pack members, asking her to keep watch in secret. There were only a handful of times he'd asked her but her father had a habit of searching for her amongst the trees when he did so—completely blowing her cover. It was best if Gandalf didn't expect her to be following—he wouldn't look for her that way. In any matter, she would need to start preparing now if she did intend to play babysitter for Gandalf.

She only had seven arrows ready, her blades needed to be sharpened and with that buck she might as well throw in a new cape and boots. With the pop of her back, she decided to take care of the deer first. Not only did she not want it to get stolen by wild animals, her stomach was beginning to demand food be put in it—and the wolf agreed. Stripping her shirt and replacing it with an old stained one, she began her bloody work.

By the time she had the deer skinned and the meat stripped from the bone, the sun was beginning to dip into the horizon, casting shadows across the open clearing. She hefted the bucket of blood and meat up, carrying her dinner to be cooked as a broth. The blood gave it flavor, she had a few herbs collected to mix in with the concoction as well, and her stomach rumbled at the thought of its taste. She dumped the contents into her large cauldron she kept in the hearth, then began to set up a fire. As the flames took, and she grabbed some drying herbs from the window sill, she heard a noise that had her body locking up and her ears perking.

When the sound came again she let out a low growl and grabbed her sword from its place by the table and walked out of the house. Her eyes narrowed at the Warg sniffing around her hut. There was something different about it, though. Besides its odd coloring, it was smaller than any of the Wargs she's seen. It was too small to carry a full grown person—maybe a child or young adolescent, let alone a fully armored orc. It seemed to be more on the sleek side then brawny and its long legs suggested it was built for swift running. She eyed its paws. They were far too big for its body size. It was just a pup. Which explained a lot, considering it hadn't noticed her yet.

Purposefully, she loudly unsheathed her sword, gaining the Warg pups' attention. With a yelp, it swung its head towards her, and belatedly, bared its teeth and growled at her. Now that it was fully facing her, Meara saw a large gash going through his left eye with more than half of its left ear torn off. That and it looked more like a natural wolf than the others she's seen.

"What did you get yourself into?"

Meara didn't realize she said it out loud until the warg pup paused and considered her words. She frowned, and pointed the tip of her sword at the warg, "Go home, pup. Or you'll be laying by that deer skin you were smelling."

She had to admit, the warg pup was brave for taking a few steps forward, even if she could smell the slight fear that the warg was feeling. It made a groaning noise, almost like a growl, on different octaves, and for a moment Meara was confused as to what it was doing until her wolf drifted forward in her mind just enough to turn her eyes gold.

"What did you say?" Her wolf spoke for her.

"I _said_ I don't have a home."

Meara blinked at the white warg pup in front of her. She knew Wargs were intelligent, but hearing it—excuse her— _he_ talk was just a little mind blowing. Meara lowered her sword slightly. "And why don't you have a home, little one."

The pup growled low, the fur on its back sticking up, "DO. NOT. Call me that!"

Meara raised a brow, a warg with a napoleon complex. That's unexpected. "What should I call you then, pup?"

The warg let his upper lip fall, his eyes narrowing at her in scrutiny. "I don't have a name to be called by. Not anymore at least."

At the last part, the Wargs' voice became quiet, and his head lowered slightly, before he remembered he was supposed to be tough in front of her. Meara considered him for a moment. He was an off shade of white—a color she'd never seen on any warg—half his ear was gone and there was a cut across his eye that would most likely scar. Meara shifted through the countless names she knew until she came upon one that fit.

"I'll call you Alby."

"What in the name of Gungabad is Alby?" The warg look slightly appalled.

"It is a name from my home island, it means white one. Unless you prefer I call you One-Ear?"

The warg looked disgruntled as he grumbled. "Alby, how am I supposed to be terrifying with a name like that?"

This made Meara laugh, "It is not the name that is terrifying but what is attached to the name, young one. Now tell me why you are sniffing around in my territory."

Alby reared his head back, " _Your_ territory?"

He let out a strange noise that must have been the warg equivalent to a laugh. Meara lifted a brow and waited for him to finish, sheathing her sword and crossing her arms over her chest. When he finally calmed himself, the warg let his tongue fall out, a sight that was quite amusing and slightly disturbing to Meara.

"I hate to break it to you, but this territory belongs to the Silver Terror."

Meara felt her brows furrow. "The Silver Terror?"

The warg nodded, "She is a great silver warg, bigger than all the Wargs except the Matriarch. She made her territory in these parts. Rumor has it she kills everything, even other Wargs." He whispered the last part as if it were blasphemy.

Meara felt a smirk form on her face and quickly squished it down as the Warg regarded her. Carefully, he treaded closer, stretching his neck out as he sniffed at her. He pulled his head back and Meara could see the shock registering on his face. "You smell just like the Silver Terror! Are you her rider?"

Meara snorted at the notion. "I hate to break it to you, Alby, but the Silver Terror and I seem to be one and the same. Now again, why are you snooping around my home?"

Alby looked as if he wanted to protest against her claim but quickly reverted to her last statement as he shifted almost uncomfortably. "Well…I…"

A loud rumble, too soft to be a growl interrupted him. Meara let out a loud laugh, one that elicited a growl from the Warg pup in front of her. "So you were hungry, and you thought to steal some food now did you?"

Alby growled at her, "Food is food. Doesn't matter where you get it."

Meara narrowed her eyes at the white cub, all humor draining from her face, "It does matter. If you rely on others to get your food for you, than how will you feed yourself when they are gone?"

Alby tilted his head, considering her words. "I thought if I could steal food from the Silver Terror, I could prove to my mother that I was strong and not just the runt of the litter."

Meara raised her brow at the Warg. He was supposed to be the runt of the litter? A pang travelled from her womb all the way up to her heart. As a born werewolf, Meara never had the opportunity to have her own children like the other female werewolves, nor had she had the time to raise adoptive children. Her time was mostly spent either being trained, training others, or doing her duties. But even if she could have her own children, the only one she wished to bare children with was long gone. Meara thought it strange that after all this time, she would feel the need to be motherly—towards a warg pup of all things at that. She studied the young wolf in front of her some more until she came to a decision.

"Alby, will you allow me to clean you?"

The wolf pup tilted took a step back, taken aback at the notion, "You want to what?"

Meara, not bothering to respond, went into the hut and came back within seconds with a damp cloth. Alby eyed her wearily as she stepped closer to him, raising the wet rag to his face. Much more gently than he thought, she rubbed away the blood on his face and ear. He bared his teeth only when she scrubbed at the dried blood that sealed his eye shut. Within moments, Alby was able to open his eye and, though it was slightly blurry, he could still see. The warg pup marveled at the female human with the warg eyes—she was willing to do something for him that his own mother wouldn't even do. He still doubted that she was indeed the Silver Terror, though he was sure she was some kind of creature. The power she held in check rolled off her in waves and the fact that she could understand the language of the Wargs attested to that.

She disappeared into her den and came out with a large bowl that held a mouthwatering aroma. Deer. The Silver Terror woman set the bowl down in front of him, "Eat. Tomorrow I will teach you how to hunt."

Alby lifted his head in surprise. He wondered how she—a human—would teach a warg how to hunt like a warg. He would be concerned about it later, for now though, he would eat and sleep. So with great ferocity, he dug into the bowl.

 **If y'all are confused about anything just ask. If it has something to do with Alby the White Warg Pup, the next chapter will explain his relevance and future chapters will reveal other things about him. But if you reeeaaaalllyyy want to know just PM me and I'll drop some hints.**

 **Please Review! Reviews make me so Happy!**


	9. Hunting and Preparing

**Sooooo...I may have forgotten momentarily that I had stories to write...oops. Anyway, please enjoy.**

Meara spent most of the evening speaking with Alby, looking for obsidian stones to turn into arrow heads and gathering strong fallen branches. She was absently sharpening the obsidian, Alby sleeping by the fire in her hut. He was slightly weary about her still, but not enough that he wouldn't accept a dry and warm place to sleep. Even though she told him to call her Meara, he still referred to her as the "Silver Terror" or sometimes the "Silver Terror human". It both irritated and pleased her that the Wargs have given her a title. Pleased her in a sense that they regarded her as something to avoid. Irritated her in a sense that those like Alby will try and do something to her to prove themselves. For one, she might be challenged. It wasn't so much the thought of fighting that made her wrinkle her nose but the thought of responsibility being placed on her shoulders when she came out victorious. She wasn't sure how pack law was done in Middle Earth, but back on earth, if a challenger won against, say an Alpha, power and responsibility was passed to the challenger. The previous alpha either became a beta or never got up from their submissive position beneath the challenger.

Meara glanced at Alby, placing the last obsidian arrow down. She wondered what the young warg had done to earn his missing ear and damaged eye. She knew that the Wargs were violent—even with their young apparently. It bothered her, she realized. It bothered her that Wargs weren't as caring toward their young as she liked. Maybe it was because of her own past, and how she was raised.

She remembered that during her younger years, she was almost always with her father. He taught her how to ease into her change, he told her stories about her mother and he even trained her a little bit in sword fighting. He protected her from those who would otherwise try and harm her….The memory of her father fighting his Beta was probably the most prominent.

She was six years old and playing in the stables with the horses. The smell of horse and hay was strong and she could hear the stable hand putting a shoe on one of the mares that pulled the royal carriage. At the moment, she had been trying to force a wad of hay into the shape of a doll when she heard Finnian, her father's "advisor" or to the werewolves, his Beta, call for her. For a brief second she thought of ignoring him and finishing her doll, but then she heard her name again this time with a little bit of power laced in it. Irritated, because even when she was so young she had a mind of her own, she dropped her hay ball and marched out of the barn, a sullen look on her face as she looked at the Beta. He was a tall man, broad shouldered and very hairy. His beard fell nearly to the middle of his chest and was adorned with multitudes of bone beads that showed a sharp contrast in his black beard. He wore one of his finest tunics, and had one of his prettiest kilt on. It was a deep blue with green accents.

"Lord Finnian." Meara said with a sniff. Looking up at him from underneath her lashes. Most of the women and even some of the men found the look endearing, but if any of the werewolves were to share their opinion, the look, in a way, was terrifying. It wasn't necessarily the girl herself, but the look always brought about a predatory look about her eyes that sent a chill down their backs.

Lord Finnian fought the urge to curl his lip at the girl. "Your father, the king, requested that I teach you to hunt."

"I don't want to hunt with you."

Lord Finnian fought the urge to growl. "It is an order from your Alpha."

Meara tilted her head and her eyes narrowed at the beta. She never liked him. "No."

She turned and trotted away, a small smirk playing on her lips when she heard him growl an oath low in his throat. Meara marched straight towards the section she knew her father to be in. She was half way to his study when she felt herself get picked up by the scruff off her neck. She growled and squirmed as she was dangled off the ground, her face scrunched up with indignation.

"You will do as you are told, _Pup_." Lord Finnian growled out at her, his eyes a burning amber, much different from his usual green eyes.

Meara's own wolf came forward turning her brown eyes golden, " _You do not tell me what to do._ "

Lord Finnian growled, his canines elongating. That was probably when the fear settled into Meara's system. It wafted from her body in small waves and only fed the wolf in front of her. With a little more struggling, Meara started to cry, her age starting to overpower the wolf within her. With a deep breath, she wailed at the top off her lungs. The noise made the Lord pause and control his wolf, just as a booming growl erupted in the hall. Both Meara and Lord Finnian turned to see King Conan stalking forward, his golden eyes narrowed at the Beta.

"Da!" Meara whimpered just as the King growled out, "Release her."

Stiffly, Lord Finnian lowered the little girl in his hand, took a step back and lowered himself to the floor. Meara, once released, bounded into her father's awaiting arms and snuggled into his warm chest. A consoling hand rubbed her back.

"Control yourself, Old Friend." It was both a reprimand and a warning rolled into one. Even though it wasn't aimed at Meara, it still sent a knot forming in her stomach. The King turned and walked back to his study. Looking over his shoulder, Meara grinned at Lord Finnian as he met her eye and stuck her tongue out at him. This time he curled his lip at the girl as she disappeared around the corner with the king.

"Da?"

"Hmm?" The King glanced at his daughter from the corner of the room before he looked back down at the reports on his table.

"How long do I have to stand here?" Meara tilted her head as she heard him shift to another paper, her eyes staring dutifully at the patterns on the wall.

"Until you learn that it's not polite nor safe to constantly challenge my Beta."

Meara glowered at the wall, "I don't like Lord Finnian."

There was a pause in the ruffling of papers. "Oh? And what has Lord Finnian done to earn your distrust?"

"He looks at Queen Malika." Meara spoke quietly. "I don't like it."

Meara had never called the Queen "mother", but instead insisted on calling her by her name. It had worried King Conan, but he supposed it was Meara's way of showing respect towards her mother. He remembered when he first saw her. Malika, an Arabic woman sold in slavery. He felt an instant connection with her, and he didn't hesitate in killing her "Owner" and escaping to the Irish Moors. It was an accident that he had turned her, he never wanted her to have the torment of changing every month and never able to bear children. It was nerve-wracking as he waited for the change to either claim her life or gift her with a new one. Malika was strong though and became his mate and queen.

"Da…was it my fault?"

The King snapped his attention to the little girl standing face to the wall. Her hair was curly like his, but was black like her mothers and her skin tone between her two parents. He stood immediately, anger rushing into him. A little bit harsher than he meant to, he turned her to face him and with a ferocity he didn't mean spoke, "Never think that. _Ever_."

He sighed when her brown eyes—replicas of his Malika's—began to tear up. Gently, King Conan tucked his little princess' hair behind her ears and wiped away the stray tears on her cheeks. "You are her pride and joy and she will never, ever, regret what she did to give life to you."

Meara embraced her father and cried as he stroked her back in soothing circles. It was probably one of the most precious memories Meara had of her and her father.

Meara sighed, looking at the Warg pup lying on his side in her hut. His back foot twitched slightly. She would look after him for now. Well, until she had to leave to shadow Gandalf and his group of Dwarves. Maybe she could bring him with her, it would be a good opportunity to teach him how to stalk prey without being noticed. With a nod, Meara set aside the arrow heads and went to her makeshift bed. In the morning she would change and take the cub out on a hunt. With that in mind, Meara shut her eyes and drifted into a slumber.

When Alby woke the next morning, it was to the Silver Terror humans' hand gently stroking the fur on his neck. He growled slightly. "Hey, I can bite your hand off you know."

Instead of the fear he was hoping to scent he got a laugh instead. "My reflexes are far quicker than yours, young Alby."

Alby grunted as he stretched. He followed Meara out of the hut and wrinkled his nose at the stars that still shone brightly in the morning sky. Alby yawned and then turned a critical eye to Meara as she began to take off her clothes.

"What are you doing?"

"Changing into the form you know me as." With that said, Meara dropped to her knees and forearms and allowed the wolf forward. She was aware of Alby pacing around her, his hackles raised as she changed. As her face structure finally settled and the pain in her body ebbed away, she stood and shook her fur out.

"You're a skin changer?!" Alby practically shouted. He looked even smaller to Meara as she looked at the white pup.

"No, I am a werewolf." To her human self it sounded like nothing but yips and a growl, but it seemed that Alby could understand her just fine.

"Werewolves _don't_ change their shape like that." Alby stated. He looked a little ruffled to Meara.

"I am not from this world, young Alby." She walked beside him and nipped his ear before she continued on into the forest. "Come, it's time for you to learn to hunt."

Alby trotted after her, his tail slightly wagging at the prospect of being taught by the Silver Terror.

He was seriously regretting ever thinking about having Meara teach him to hunt. She was a fierce killer, and a strict teacher. At first, she taught him to scent creatures, to follow their trail. Then she taught him to stalk, and now she was showing him how to kill a buck.

"You want to avoid the horns, Alby." She stated, "You aren't like me, you can't heal rapidly from an injury."

Her voice was sharp and commanding, demanding his full attention. It was already mid-day and he was starving. He hadn't been able to catch a single thing yet. It made him angry and frustrated. It would take a miracle if Meara could successfully teach him to hunt.

"Focus, Alby." Meara snapped her jaws near his flank, startling him out of his head. "You need to pay attention. If you aren't careful you can injure yourself or worse—die."

Alby gulped and shook the thought of failure from his head. He went to sniffing out for prey, following his nose just as Meara showed him. It seemed like he was walking in circles as he sniffed out prey, but it seemed useless. He could smell mice, he could smell birds and he could smell deer. Deer! He turned around to give a wolfish grin to Meara, but she was nowhere to be seen. He wondered where she went—surely she wouldn't leave him on his own to try and hunt deer? With an indignant huff, he turned back towards the scent of deer and followed the trail up a crested hill. He slowed as the scent grew stronger, hunkering low to the forest floor. He remained in the light as Meara instructed, using the light that shone down on his fur as camouflage. Carefully, he picked his way closer to the deer that were just visible behind the underbrush. He was in luck, two doe and not a buck insight.

He kept his eyes trained on the doe closest to him, his nostrils flaring and his mouth watering as he thought of attacking the doe. He took a step closer, pausing when the deer looked up from grazing. With a loud growl and teeth bared, Alby lunged forward his jaw clamping down around the does' throat. There was a satisfying crack and just to be sure, Alby shook the deer in his grip, blood spurting onto his tongue. Vaguely, he heard a howl that sounded like Meara and a strange noise. When he looked up at the sound of approaching feet, he saw the other doe in her jaws. She motioned for him to follow her, dragging her deer and leaving a small blood trail. Alby wanted to eat his deer right then and there, but complied with the Silver Terrors' wishes. Had she been following him the whole time, or had she taken another route to the deer? He didn't know. She was silent like a ghost, and he couldn't even smell her as her scent was practically everywhere in the territory. Alby thought that perhaps it would be okay if she taught him, if he could become as deadly as Meara, he could prove that he was just as much a warg as the rest of his kin.

When he dragged his deer into the clearing by Meara's hut, she was just reshaping back into her human form, her silver fur falling away and her back arched. It sounded painful to Alby, and just a little bit thrilling. With a grunt, Meara stood and dressed back in those skins that smelled faintly of deer but mostly of her. He eyed her as she approached him.

"Alby, give me the deer."

He growled at her. This was _his_ deer. Why did she want it? She had her own.

Meara rolled her eyes. "Alby, I just want the skin, you can have the rest."

When he still didn't show any signs of letting the carcass go, Meara bared her teeth, allowing the wolf to come forward just enough to dominate over Alby's will. The Warg Pup whimpered and dropped the carcass, backing away slightly. Meara grabbed the deer and hung it up, then grabbed the other deer and put it beside that one, shoving the bucket underneath it and slitting its throat. While that one drained, Meara started skinning Alby's catch, ignoring the blood that oozed over her fingers and sprayed out. She would have to wash the skin to be usable, but it was worth having the extra skin.

Once she was finished, she lay the skin over the makeshift railing and took the bloody carcass down. She turned to Alby. "You can have it now."

She tossed the deer to him and he collided headlong into it as his jaws clamped onto it. Meara wrinkled her nose as blood splattered all over his white fur. What a messy eater, though she supposed it was mostly her fault for throwing the deer to him. She went into her hut, collecting a bowl to eat the rest of the leftovers from yesterday. She sat on the front step, eating carefully as she watched the warg pup tear into his meal with a ferocity and greed that put Meara's appetite to shame. He left nothing to spare, bone was chewed, meat swallowed, and soon only a small splatter of blood on the dirt and the blood staining Alby's white fur were the only signs that a carcass had been there before. Meara swallowed her last bite of food and set the bowl aside.

"Follow me, Alby."

The warg lifted his gaze from his paw, his tongue dragging across his muzzle to clean the blood. Cautiously, he stood and followed the werewolf to the far side of the clearing. Alby wasn't too sure about the woman anymore. He could feel her power very clearly when she was in her wolf form, but he had no idea she could also access that power as a human—and in all honesty, in either form, Meara's power was probably the most frightening thing he'd ever encountered in his small six months of life.

After a month of teaching Alby to hunt and fight, and preparing for her little favor for Gandalf, Meara found herself restless. A restless werewolf was never a good one. Despite her restlessness, Meara kept on with her duties. "Defend your underbelly. Guard your neck. This is the thirtieth time I've had to remind you, Alby."

The young wolf huffed indignantly. "How'm I supposed to be doing that exactly, when you _won't stop moving_."

Meara held in a snicker at the sound of the warg's exasperation. Much to the young pups chagrin, the moment he learned to defend his weak areas she would attack him at a different angle, "A good fighter knows how to defend themselves at _all_ angles."

She nipped his underbelly, enough to break skin but not draw blood. He growled in frustration. "Why _all_ angles? I doubt the wargs would stop to think enough to try and go in with a sneak attack."

Meara felt her ear twitch, "No, but from what I've seen, and what you should well know, Warg's hunt in packs, much like the lion prides in my old world. You need to be aware of where your weaknesses are and if they can be exploited by others."

The white warg pup grumbled, shaking himself, "Whatever. Let's do it again."

Meara gave a snort, "As admirable as your persistence is, young Alby, the sun will be setting soon. And tomorrow I take leave."

Alby scratched at his ear with his hind leg, "Leave? Where are you going?"

"There is something I must take care of. I'll be gone awhile I suppose."

The warg regarded her, eyes narrowed. He huffed, "What about my training to be a good hunter?"

Meara paused and thought about it. She couldn't leave him here, she knew that. His presence here might attract other Wargs or creatures without her scent to mask his own and it had taken her quite a bit of time to rid these parts of unpleasant creatures. Maybe she could take him…as a learning experience. A test to see how much he's learned and the skills he's required. If Meara were human she'd have raised a brow at the young warg, but as it were, her lips wrinkled to reveal her teeth, not a displeasing look in her eye but one of contemplation. "If you go, it will be a test to see all you've learned, it will not be easy, and Alby"—her voice drew sharp to gain his utmost attention—"What we will hunt will not be for eating."

The warg looked taken aback, "What would be the point in hunting something if you can't _eat_ it?"

Meara rolled her eyes as she turned away and walked back towards her cabin. As expected and out of habit, the warg followed, persistent as always with his questions. "Will you skin what we hunt _and then_ eat it?"—"No."—"Will you use it to catch something bigger?"—"No."—"Then _why_ "—

"For goodness sake's Alby, it is strictly a tracking exercise. What you will be practicing hunting will be under my protection—it is a favor for someone I know." Meara felt her exasperation leak out of her in waves. It was different though than the other times she felt the irritation. This one had more fondness in it than she would dare look into.

"A favor for who exactly?" The ever curious warg questioned, loping beside her with a sideways glance at her.

"An acquaintance."

The warg made a noise deep in his throat, "Yes, but _who?_ "

"Good lord, Alby. Do you ever _not_ ask questions?" Meara groaned out, nipping at his foreleg in a bout of pseudo-anger.

Alby just let his tongue loll out of his mouth as he sped his lope up a bit. "Weren't you the one who encouraged me to ask questions?"

Meara let out a puff of air, "I did, didn't I?"

"Yes, now who is this favor for?"

Meara rolled her eyes, "If you must know, the favor is for Gandalf the Grey."

The warg pup paused a moment. "Who?"

Meara just snorted at the warg, "Come, we have preparations to take care of."

"What kind of preparations?" Alby sniffed, bounding into the clearing that held their home.

Meara lowered herself as she slid into her change, a growl coming out of her mouth that steadily turned into a more humanistic groan. Like always after each change, she rested for a moment in a crouched position and caught her breath. "It will be a long journey, Alby."

She stood then, and walked into her cabin, grabbing the clothes she'd left out from the morning. Grabbing several bags, she began to prepare, ignoring the look that the young warg was giving her. Rubbing at her forehead, she thought of the previsions they would need. Well, she would need. She had thirty arrows. A new bow. Her blade sharpened and ready. And the throwing knife set Lord Elrond gave her, polished to shine even in the dark and resting in their individual storage pockets on her belt. Setting those aside, she laid out her cloak, to which she had darkened to a green. Her boots she'd created a little less than a month ago were broken in and ready for a long journey.

"Get some sleep, Alby," Meara turned away, and crawled onto her cot, "We leave at first light tomorrow."

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	10. Trolls and Orcs

After a month of teaching Alby to hunt and fight, and preparing for her little favor for Gandalf, Meara found herself restless. A restless werewolf was never a good one. Despite her restlessness, Meara kept on with her duties. "Defend your underbelly. Guard your neck. This is the thirtieth time I've had to remind you, Alby."

The young wolf huffed indignantly. "How'm I supposed to be doing that exactly, when you _won't stop moving_."

Meara held in a snicker at the sound of the warg's exasperation. Much to the young pups chagrin, the moment he learned to defend his weak areas she would attack him at a different angle, "A good fighter knows how to defend themselves at _all_ angles."

She nipped his underbelly, enough to break skin but not draw blood. He growled in frustration. "Why _all_ angles? I doubt the wargs would stop to think enough to try and go in with a sneak attack."

Meara felt her ear twitch, "No, but from what I've seen, and what you should well know, Warg's hunt in packs, much like the lion prides in my old world. You need to be aware of where your weaknesses are and if they can be exploited by others."

The white warg pup grumbled, shaking himself, "Whatever. Let's do it again."

Meara gave a snort, "As admirable as your persistence is, young Alby, the sun will be setting soon. And tomorrow I take leave."

Alby scratched at his ear with his hind leg, "Leave? Where are you going?"

"There is something I must take care of. I'll be gone awhile I suppose."

The warg regarded her, eyes narrowed. He huffed, "What about my training to be a good hunter?"

Meara paused and thought about it. She couldn't leave him here, she knew that. His presence here might attract other Wargs or creatures without her scent to mask his own and it had taken her quite a bit of time to rid these parts of unpleasant creatures. Maybe she could take him…as a learning experience. A test to see how much he's learned and the skills he's required. If Meara were human she'd have raised a brow at the young warg, but as it were, her lips wrinkled to reveal her teeth, not a displeasing look in her eye but one of contemplation. "If you go, it will be a test to see all you've learned, it will not be easy, and Alby"—her voice drew sharp to gain his utmost attention—"What we will hunt will not be for eating."

The warg looked taken aback, "What would be the point in hunting something if you can't _eat_ it?"

Meara rolled her eyes as she turned away and walked back towards her cabin. As expected and out of habit, the warg followed, persistent as always with his questions. "Will you skin what we hunt _and then_ eat it?"—"No."—"Will you use it to catch something bigger?"—"No."—"Then _why_ "—

"For goodness sake's Alby, it is strictly a tracking exercise. What you will be practicing hunting will be under my protection—it is a favor for someone I know." Meara felt her exasperation leak out of her in waves. It was different though than the other times she felt the irritation. This one had more fondness in it than she would dare look into.

"A favor for who exactly?" The ever curious warg questioned, loping beside her with a sideways glance at her.

"An acquaintance."

The warg made a noise deep in his throat, "Yes, but _who?_ "

"Good lord, Alby. Do you ever _not_ ask questions?" Meara groaned out, nipping at his foreleg in a bout of pseudo-anger.

Alby just let his tongue loll out of his mouth as he sped his lope up a bit. "Weren't you the one who encouraged me to ask questions?"

Meara let out a puff of air, "I did, didn't I?"

"Yes, now who is this favor for?"

Meara rolled her eyes, "If you must know, the favor is for Gandalf the Grey."

The warg pup paused a moment. "Who?"

Meara just snorted at the warg, "Come, we have preparations to take care of."

"What kind of preparations?" Alby sniffed, bounding into the clearing that held their home.

Meara lowered herself as she slid into her change, a growl coming out of her mouth that steadily turned into a more humanistic groan. Like always after each change, she rested for a moment in a crouched position and caught her breath. "It will be a long journey, Alby."

She stood then, and walked into her cabin, grabbing the clothes she'd left out from the morning. Grabbing several bags, she began to prepare, ignoring the look that the young warg was giving her. Rubbing at her forehead, she thought of the previsions they would need. Well, she would need. She had thirty arrows. A new bow. Her blade sharpened and ready. And the throwing knife set Lord Elrond gave her, polished to shine even in the dark and resting in their individual storage pockets on her belt. Setting those aside, she laid out her cloak, to which she had darkened to a green. Her boots she'd created a little less than a month ago were broken in and ready for a long journey.

"Get some sleep, Alby," Meara turned away, and crawled onto her cot, "We leave at first light tomorrow."

When Alby awoke the next morning, Meara already sat awake. Her hair had been braided into five sections—two on each temple and one that arched over the center of her skull. A quiver of arrows rested on her back, a sword at her waist and a bow gripped in her palm. She arched a brow at the warg, "Good morning, Sunshine."

Alby huffed, raising to his feet and shaking out his fur. "I dislike this sarcasm you use."

Meara smirked, "And yet you pick up on it so well."

She stood then and tossed a large slab of meat to the warg. "Let's go. We need to reach Bree within the week."

"What is Bree?" Alby asked after swallowing his meal in one bite.

"Not "what", _where_. Bree is a town that lies in the west. Just south of Fornost Erain." Meara briefly recalled her few stays at Bree as she ushered the warg out the door. It was a town that often travelers would go through—the most likely place she would pick up Gandalf's scent. They had never truly went into detail on how they would meet, or even the route that Gandalf would take. With a small frown, Meara crouched and drew a stick from the ground and began to draw a map of Arda. She knew their destination. Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. She also knew—inevitably—that they would end up speaking with Lord Elrond. It was a guess, and she could only hope she was right, but Gandalf, as eccentric as she thought him to be, wasn't a fool. He would either ask the elf lord for help or for advice. That left the expanse of land between Bree and Rivendell for her to either find or catch up to the wizard and his merry band of dwarves. With a nod to herself, Meara stood and motioned for Alby to follow her.

"Let's go."

Meara headed off into the expanse of the forest, Alby following close behind at a lazy lope. He eyed Meara with a perplexed look. He had noticed that even in her human form, she was silent—one with nature. The only sound came from the quiver where the arrows made a very slight _clink_ with her every step.

"So this favor requires what of you exactly?"

"Alby," Meara sighed.

"Alright, alright." The warg pup snickered as they made their way through the wilds.

For a while, they travelled in silence, travelling the deer paths that wound towards Bree. Vaguely, the smell of horse, sweat and the distinct smell of dwarf came across Meara's nose. She paused in her movements, crouching to the ground as she inhaled deeply. Just barely she could smell a hint of Gandalf, a smoky smell like that of a pipe. Twisting her lips, Meara looked around, using her ears and sense of smell.

"Uh, Meara…" Alby, coughed. She shushed him, sniffing at the air, looking for the direction they went in. Well, that is until the vilest scent she'd ever had the misfortune of smelling went up her nose. She coughed, standing, and covered her nose.

"That's disgusting. Have you smelled this scent before Alby?" Meara looked at the warg pup, her sense of smell finally coming back to normal.

"Yeah, it's troll." The warg sniffed at the ground, making Meara wonder if the warg could actually smell or if her own nose was just sensitive. She pushed that thought to the back of her mind and focused on what Alby said.

"Right troll." She wrinkled her nose; she suddenly had a deep hate for trolls. Mainly for their disgusting smell, in comparison they make the orcs and wargs smell like a freaking bouquet. With a snort, she took a breath and inhaled, ignoring the sting the smell brought to her eyes. Just barely she could smell the hint of dwarf, and then she heard the dwarves.

Alby stilled beside her as he caught the shouting. Meara narrowed her eyes towards their general direction before she started off. If the dwarves had managed to get themselves into trouble at the start of their journey, she wondered if she would end up showing herself to the company. With an annoyed huff she pulled an arrow and her bow from her back as she stepped closer, her eyes catching the three enormous forms of trolls all sitting around a fire and staring at a hobbit who was suggesting to them the best way to cook dwarf. Meara felt curiosity prickle at her mind. She'd seen a hobbit before, of course, what with her visits to Bree, but from what she could gather from her minor interactions with them was that they were similar to snooping old women who had nothing better to do but spy on the neighbors, eat, and be sickeningly jolly home bodies. The last interaction she had with a hobbit didn't necessarily go well, too. Meara snickered to herself when she remembered threatening that mini-woman she would eat her if she didn't mind her own business. So, with that summing up her musings on Hobbits, she wondered what a hobbit was doing in Gandalf's little group of dwarves. She remembered him saying something about a hobbit, but she highly doubted Gandalf would bring a _hobbit_ to fight a dragon.

She was about to shoot the arrow into the eye of the troll closest to her, but then she heard Gandalf's booming voice, and then blinked as a loud bang made her ears ring. Meara lifted a brow when light poured onto the trolls and they writhed in agony before turning completely into stone. She would have whistled in wow, but that would have given her away. She put her bow back and replaced the arrow in the quiver.

She listened with half an ear as Gandalf scolded the dwarves, then melted into the shadows of the trees as they went in search of the trolls' hidey-hole. Alby stood behind her as she knelt a few feet off from the opening, eyeing the dwarves as they went in and out. Even Gandalf had disappeared down the opening. It was only moments until Gandalf returned and the dwarves exited the troll hole. Her eyes went straight to Gandalf as he gave the Hobbit a dagger that was more of a sword in the hobbits hand.

Meara tensed when a sleigh pulled by giant rabbits came crashing into the clearing. It was the sight of the Brown Wizard—mainly his staff—that made her grab the nape of Albys' neck when he rushed to take a chomp at the rabbits.

"Hush," she growled at Alby, listening to the Brown Wizard's ramblings. A chill went up her spine when the wizard began to ramble about a darkness growing in Dol Guldor. Meara was so focused on the Brown Wizard's words, she didn't notice the warg scouts that jumped from the bushes. Of course, she needn't have worried about her charges as the dwarves could clearly handle themselves. With a scowl, she snuck closer to the dwarves, her eyes scanning the woods for the orc pack she was sure wasn't far behind. One of the dwarves seconded her opinion.

"These are Gungabad Wolves," Gandalf told the Brown Wizard, "They'll out run you."

"And _these_ are Rhustaville Rabbits!" The Brown Wizard replied immediately, "I'd like to see them try."

Meara grinned. She liked this wizard. As the band of dwarves, hobbit, and wizards took off, Meara undressed herself, pulling her weapons off and then folding everything and neatly packed them away, putting a cover on her quiver so the arrows wouldn't fall out when she ran. Meara had designed her quiver and weapons belts to refasten so that she could wear them as a wolf and not have to worry about going back to fetch her things. Especially if she needed to run a good distance as she was faster in her wolf form than her human—plus the wargs would be more terrified if they laid eyes on the Silver Terror. She snorted as she crouched down and started her change.

By the time her change was done, her charges were far off and she and Alby had some catching up to do. "Hurry, Alby."

They started off at top speed, breaking from the trees and flying over the land, just in time to hear the most pitiful sound of an orc and warg being killed, and just in time to see the orc pack start in the direction of the sound. Meara huffed, didn't they know how to make a one-shot kill? Amateurs. Meara's annoyance fueled her to go faster, leaving Alby a good twenty paces behind her. If a human were to see her racing over the field she would have been nothing more than a silver streak amongst the green of the grass.

When she found the dwarves, they were near an out-cropping of rocks, proclaiming the wizard had abandoned them. A young looking dwarf saw her first and yelled out a name. "Thorin!"

A tough looking dwarf raised his axe to strike her down, but his battle cry died out when she veered off and with a ferocious growl rammed mid-air into a warg and snapped its neck on impact. Before the dwarves could comprehend what just happened, the Silver Terror let out a deafening roar.

The dwarves looked on in stunned silence as a couple wargs emerged from the trees. One went for another young dwarf, this one holding a bow and had dark brown hair. With a frightening growl, Meara jumped to the warg and began dragging it away from the dwarves. The other warg went to help its pack mate, but paused as the scent of the silver warg finally curled into its nose. It began to shrink away, surprising the dwarves, and then completely ran.

"This way, you fools!" Meara heard Gandalf call out. A moment later she heard the whistle of an arrow as it sunk into a warg sneaking behind her as she dealt with the struggling warg beneath her. "Hurry Kili! Don't worry about the wolf, she can take care of herself."

When the dwarves disappeared, Meara turned her full attention to the orc pack that finally emerged from the few outcropping of trees. The orcs were speaking in Black Speech, the language sounding like a curse as it slithered towards her ears. She growled, head low, tail high, and her legs taught to move at a moments' notice. And then the sound of a horn blared, and Meara wanted to slam her head into a rock with frustration. Calling for Alby, she turned and fled just as the elves rammed from the sides into the orc pack, slaughtering them. She caught Lord Elrond's scent briefly before she stretched her legs and put distance between herself and the battling elves.

Meara steered their course towards Rivendell, stopping briefly a few yards away from the Last Homely House to change back into a human. With Alby staying close to her leg, Meara took the familiar path to the grand entrance of Rivendell where a group of dwarves, in unison gave her and Alby a suspicious look. Her brow arched as a few gave her a sneer.

"Lady Meara?!" a shocked sounding Lindir filled her ears.

"Hello, Lord Lindir." Meara could feel a headache coming on.

"You…you look the same."

Meara snorted as she came to stand beside the group of dwarves cocking a hip as she looked at the elf-lord. "Indeed."

She turned to look at the dwarves giving them each a once over, "Is anyone injured?"

"Are you some kind of elf-witch?" The same tough-looking dwarf asked her with suspicion. One of the dwarves elbowed him and in a scolding whisper, " _Dwalin_."

Meara laughed, "Does it look like I have pointy ears, shorty? I am no elf. Let alone a witch."

She could see very clearly that she insulted the dwarves. They had all stiffened, a few gripping their weapons. Meara simply sniggered, looking at Gandalf. "I suppose I could have waited, but they'd already seen me and they would have been suspicious if the same wolf kept popping up, wouldn't it?"

"What is she talking about?" A regal looking dwarf sent a glare to the wizard.

"I asked Lady Meara to shadow the Company. Just as a precaution." Gandalf explained.

The dwarves looked at her with skepticism. It took all her will power not to roll her eyes. "I'm tougher than I look."

A few of the dwarves laughed, and Meara felt her fury grow, she felt her lips curl, her eyes melting gold as she stared at the dwarves, though the only one who seemed to notice the change was the same young dwarf who saw her wolf form first. He had lightly colored brown hair, maybe it was more of an orange color. A short beard with two braids graced his chin. His eyes were wide and his mouth formed a little 'o'.

Meara pushed her anger away and let her eyes return to their molten brown, her gaze skittering back to the way she'd come as the sound of horses drifted to her ears. She looked down at Alby, who was pressed against her leg with a worrisome look in his eyes. She sighed, shaking her head. This was going to be a long day.

 **So this took me forever to post...truthfully I've just been very busy and hadn't had a lot of free time to write, but I got's it.**

 **Sooo...I got a job..which is nice for me but sucks for you guys cause during summer break I won't have all day and night to write and post regularly... But I need some money and...yeah. Anywho, tell me what you think, remember constructive criticism. Key word there is constructive not resentful. Not even going to get started on the "naughty" reviews. Okay so it was only those two but still.**

 **For this chapter I followed the movie because there's more opportunity than in the book for Meara to be revealed towards the dwarves. I'm kind of iffy about the chapter in general each part was written with at least three weeks in between them.**

 **Please Review! Love you my preciouses!**

 **(see what I did there?)**


	11. Rivendell and Dwarves

**Hey guys, sorry this took me FOREVER to write. College was hectic! Now that it's summer, I should be able to post more regularly but if it ever gets like this again it's because work is kicking my ass. Anywho, here you go.**

When Lord Elrond dismounted, he gave her a once over his gaze lingering on Alby for a brief moment, "Lady Meara."

"Lord Elrond."

His gaze shifted to Gandalf, "Mithrandir."

When they started to speak in Sindarin, Meara drew her gaze to the Dwarves, who shifted nervously and eyed the elves surrounding them. Her eyes drew back to Lord Elrond as he spoke in English, "Strange for Orcs to come so close to our borders."

He handed his blades to Lindir and turned back to Gandalf as he continued to speak, "Something or someone has drawn them near."

Gandalf nodded, gesturing to the group, "That may have been us."

Meara shifted backwards as the group dwarves parted for Thorin. As he approached, Lord Elrond turned fully towards him, "Welcome Thorin, Son of Thrain."

"I do not believe we have met."

"You have your grandfather's bearing. I knew Thror when he ruled under the mountain."

"Indeed? He made no mention of _you_." Meara gave Thorin a sharp look, though it went unnoticed by all but Alby, who shrunk into her leg. Elrond began to speak in Sindarin as he gave a pensive look to Thorin.

A fluffy red-bearded dwarf stepped forward, eyes narrowed dangerously, "What is he saying? Does he offer us insult?!"

"No, Master Gloin, he is offering you _food_." Gandalf interrupted, exasperation filling his voice.

Meara scoffed as the dwarves began to converse with each other in whispers. "In that case, lead on."

She turned to Elrond and bowed, before motioning to Alby, "He is under my protection, and will not be harmed."

"He will not be harmed so long as _he_ does not harm others."

Meara nodded, and began to follow the dwarves, Alby staying close to her side. She decided to eat with the dwarves, instead of with Lord Elrond and Gandalf. If she were to be their protector of some sorts, she should at least get to know their scents and names. She watched them all with a stony expression as she ate the food offered to them. She knew dwarves were hard headed and stubborn but this was just ridiculous.

"Try it, you might like it."

"I don't like green food."

"Where's the meat?"

Meara sighed and shook her head.

"Do you have something to say, Woman?" The bald dwarf, Dwalin, narrowed his eyes at her.

She glared right back, "I have a name, Dwalin. I suggest you use it. And as a matter of fact, I do have something to say: Eat your damn food and stop complaining. They could have given us _nothing_ to eat and turned us away. Be grateful you have a roof to sleep under tonight."

Some of the dwarves sputtered and began to yell, but it was Balin, the old dwarf who spoke to her that quieted the other dwarves. "You know the troubles of travel, My Lady?"

She quirked a brow, "I've lived the troubles of travel, yes. For some time now."

Dwalin snorted, "For how long? Two days?"

"Try a little over two thousand years."

This made the dwarves laugh, except for Balin, who saw the serious look in her eyes and Nori, the young dwarf who saw her eyes glowing. "That's a long time, you must have a lot of experience with starvation."

Meara cut her eyes to Bilbo, a serious expression on his face. "Are you really that old? I mean, I don't mean to be rude—"

"It is not rude, Bilbo." Meara sighed, and then looked back at Balin. "I do not have much experience with starvation, I am a hunter after all. And no, Bilbo, I am not two thousand. I'm _much_ older."

The dwarves watched her quizzically, but it was one of the younger dwarves, the blond haired one who leaned forward with a confused look on his face. "How can that be? You are of the Man race, aren't you?"

"Fili, correct?" Meara watched him give a short nod, before she leaned back in her chair. "I suppose I can say I am not human. I am immortal and from an entirely different realm. I cannot die unless killed and even _that_ is very hard to do."

"You don't look hard to kill." The youngest dwarf said, a raven-haired dwarf that she remembered as Kili. "And another realm? Where are you from exactly?"

Meara gave a levelled look to Kili, "Looks can be deceiving, and where I am from…" She gave a short pause, deciding if she tell them the truth or a lie. "It does not matter anymore."

They all look unconvinced, but let the subject drop as they teased Bilbo about his sword. Meara ate in silence, listening to the music the elves were playing and ignoring the rambunctious dwarves. A small tap had her looking to one of the elven maidens, who leaned down and whispered in her ear. "Lord Glorfindel requests your presence."

Meara started to cough on the piece of lettuce she was chewing on. With a thick swallow, she leaned forward and stared at the elven maiden who made a quick retreat down a hallway. She heaved a deep sigh, standing form the table and following the scent of the elven maid.

If she was being honest with herself, she really didn't want to see Lord Glorfindel. Not after her dramatic last words with him…not after him _knowing_. Despite this trepidation, she followed the elven maids scent until she picked up Lord Glorfindels' and proceeded to the empty armory. She heard him, before she saw him. She could hear the sound of sharpening metal, his even breathing and the calm thump of his heart.

Inhaling quietly, she rounded one of the pillars and found the elf lord sitting on a stone bench with his sword in his lap. At her appearance, he set the sword aside and stood, watching her with a quizzical look in his eyes. They were both quiet as they watched each other carefully, but it was Meara who broke the silence moments later.

"How are you faring?"

He scoffed, "It's been fifteen years, you look _exactly_ the same as the day you left and you ask me ' _How are you faring'_?"

A small smile played on her face. "I _am_ a werewolf. Why are you so shocked?"

He shook his head, "Why did you leave?"

Meara raised a brow, "Why would I stay where I am thought to be evil?"

Lord Glorfindel narrowed his eyes at her. "No one said you were evil."

"It didn't need to be said." Meara crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a pointed look. "Besides, I was getting comfortable. I need to get back to my own world, I don't belong in Middle-Earth."

"And you'll find the answer out in the wilds?"

Honestly, Meara was beginning to regret leaving the dwarves. With a frustrated sigh, she rubbed at her forehead, "No, but—"

"Then stay in Rivendell."

Meara gave him a narrow-eyed look. It was completely out of the blue, at least to her eyes as she watched his serious expression. "I go with the dwarves to Erebor."

Glorfindel blinked at her. "Why?"

"As a favor to Gandalf…and because, well, I was bored." She huffed in silence, turning her gaze toward the window that let golden line shine in. She hated to admit it, but her life in the forest had turn into a routine and it was quite boring, even with Alby to keep her occupied. She wanted excitement…or to get angry. She wanted to hunt more than just deer. A dragon would keep her occupied for good while…and dragon scales. That was also a big reason she decided to join Gandalf. To make dragon armor for Alby. He'd be just as dangerous as she was. Nothing could break through the tough hide of dragon scales. She wanted to keep her pup safe, but without Immortality or fast healing…it was nearly impossible.

She paused in her thinking. _Her pup_. The thought made her cheeks turn pink and her stomach knit into tight knots. She hadn't realized she'd let herself get _that_ attached, but there was no turning back now, she'd claimed and named the warg pup. She coughed, looking back at the silent elf lord.

"I've also done something else…that you probably won't like…"

He arched a brow in answer, a look that said _I doubt there's anything you can do that'll shock me now_. Meara turned to the door, where Alby stood just out of eye shot. "Come here, Alby."

She heard Glorfindel say something in Sindarin and assumed that he was cursing to hell and back. " _Meara_ , what do you think you're doing?"

Meara laughed, and gestured for Alby to sit beside her. "He's a warg pup, not a baby dragon."

"Meara—

"I adopted him. He's perfectly fine." Meara rolled her eyes, turning away from the elf lord to go back to the dwarves, "Besides, we're pretty much the same species. _Come Alby_."

If Meara had been watching Lord Glorfindel, she would have seen the stricken look on his face as she said her last two words—which to him sounded more like garbled growling.

When Meara found the dwarves, they were destroying furniture to build a fire and roasting meat. Meara sighed, then caught the sausage that was thrown to Bombur. "I'll take that."

She tossed the sausage to Alby. The dwarves glowered, and then Dwalin spoke again. "If you are not a witch, how do you control that Warg."

Meara leaned on the railing, arching a brow, "It's called civility. And I do not control Alby. He is under no ones' control but his own. I am his…" Meara paused looking down at the warg who laid by her feet. "I am his foster parent."

The dwarf snorted. Meara shot him a glare, but turned back to staring quizzically at the white warg. She stiffened at his next words. "Wargs are stupid beings, and evil. They don't do nothing but kill and eat."

Meara stared at the dwarf with a frightening intensity that made the air thick and the dwarves uncomfortable. "Be careful what words you say, Dwarf, they may be your last. I will say this once, I am only accompanying you because Gandalf asked me to, as well as my own reasons, but know this. I protect you from what I can but the only thing standing between you and me is a blade of iron that won't help you at all from my wrath."

To emphasize her point, she picked up Bombur from the table by the scruff of his shirt and promptly dropped him on his arse in front of the table. At his stunned look she simply said, "Be a decent person to your hosts and use a chair. That's what they're meant for."

She didn't care if the dwarves mistrusted her, or feared her, she won't stand for their blatant disrespect of her and Alby simply because of what he was. Without a second glance she stalked away, deciding that if she were to keep her word to Gandalf, she should probably not let herself get any ideas of killing them to save her the trouble of keeping them safe. From what she could tell so far, these particular dwarves were either going to be the death of her, or worse.

Meara shook the thought from her head—she could never surrender to her beastly part. Even when she wasn't in control, she was _always_ in control. No matter when she lost her control, there was always a part of her—the human part—that was always there to reel in the monster or direct it to something she could destroy without regretting it. With a shake of her head, Meara lingered in a part of the hall that was unoccupied, keeping the dwarves in her sight and, unbeknownst to them, where she could still hear them as if she were standing amidst them.

"How could she do that? Lift Bombur up as if he weighed nothing?" Kili whispered to his brother Fili.

"It doesn't matter, she's unnatural." Dwalin replied before the blonde dwarf could reply.

"Are you still talking about the warg pup?" That was Bofur.

"Aye."

"It _is_ a pup," Fili insisted. "We know nothing about Wargs except that they are mounts for the Orcs. Maybe if they are raised differently, they aren't what we think."

"You're young, lad," Dwalin gave him a rough pat on the shoulder, "All wargs are the same. Evil and blood thirsty."

"What about the silver warg that saved Kili." Fili insisted, "It completely ignored him and went straight for the wargs and orcs."

The other dwarves remained quiet. Meara stared at Fili quizzically. She'll admit she was old, she could relate to the dwarves and their mistrust, but a large part of her could see that it was important to see reason. If the dwarves were so stubborn that they wouldn't admit that it's a _possibility_ that wargs are not what they thought, then it very well might be the death of them. Meara hoped that she was wrong.

When Thorin, Balin, and Bilbo returned to the group, she settled herself on the floor next to Alby. She gave a small smile as the hobbit met her gaze and let it drop as he quickly looked away. He wasn't afraid, Meara could tell. Apprehensive was the best thing she could name the look that crossed his face. Meara shut her eyes and leaned her head against the wall, feigning sleep. They'd talk more if they thought she were unconscious.

They spoke quietly amongst themselves, making plans to leave before light and before the elves could stop them.

Thorin spoke softly and quickly, "We cannot wait for the wizard. If we do the elves will surely try to stop us."

"And the woman?" Dwalin voiced, "I don't like her presence here. She brings foreboding presence."

"She's just a woman. We'll leave when she sleeps." Thorin gave his final orders, and the group quickly dispersed to pack their things and prepare to leave. She thought their conversation had ended when she heard Bilbo speak up.

"Is it wise to leave her? I mean she did say she was following us as a favor to Gandalf. And shouldn't we trust her if Gandalf asked her to come with us?"

"We do not know her. She may have ulterior motives for doing as Gandalf asked."

If Meara could, she'd have rolled her eyes. Of course she had an ulterior motive, but not the kind the dwarf suspected of her. With a silent snort, she let the dwarves think she was asleep as they slipped out of Rivendell. It wasn't until she their loud trod disappeared from her ears that she got up and began to follow the dwarves trail.

 **I should have another chapter up by tommorrow or possibly sooner. I'm on a fracking roll.**


	12. Mountains and Goblins

**hehe, so funny story. I thought I posted this chapter already...but i didn't...hehehe oops.**

 **Also there is a bit of history in this chapter though I don't know how accurate it is I am not a history major. And Also...Disclaimer: a few ideas mainly with the werewolf logic is also from the brilliant Mercy Thompson series. As most of my info is...I believe there is also info from another author but I dont remember which author or if I even used that info...ok here's the story lol**

The Company had just reached the foot of the mountain when Dwalin, who was currently leading the dwarves on stopped. Thorin pushed his way forward, demanding from Dwalin, "Why have we stopped?"

Dwalin, with narrowed eyes, motioned toward the two figures in their path. Thorin, narrowed his eyes at the woman who leaned casually against a stone wall, using a knife to dig dirt from under her nails, the white warg pup sitting like an obedient dog at her feet. The warg looked up at the woman and made a rumbling sound in his throat.

Meara looked up from her hand, smirking at the stunned, suspicious dwarves. "Oh good, I was beginning to wonder if I'd guessed wrong in which path you would take."

Truly, she hadn't guessed anything and had simply overheard what they were saying, but they didn't know that. She fought a grin as Thorin gave her a vile look, "And how had you passed us without our notice?"

Meara grinned then, "A woman never reveals her secrets."

She wasn't deterred at the suspicious look on the dwarfs' face. "You are not welcome on this venture. I know why you have joined our mission."

Meara snorted, "Do you, dwarf? Because I don't think you do."

The look on Thorin's face could only be described as contempt. Before he could reply though, Bilbo spoke up, hesitance in his voice, "Why have you? Come with us, I mean."

Meara stared at the hobbit for a long moment. He was hesitant, and weak looking but Meara thought he had courage, especially if he was going to ask what the others surely would not. She decided to answer him, "Because of the dragon. I want his hide after he is killed."

"Why?" It was Fili who asked, a look of confusion on his face. It wasn't her who answered though.

"Because dragon hide is tougher than nails…you want to make armor out of it, don't you?" Balin asked, eyeing her with a bit of respect.

"Not for myself." Was all she said, before stepping closer to the dwarves. "Enough about my reasons though, you are being hunted by orcs and they'll have wargs to track you. Give me two things with your scent on it. Anything you can part with. A scrap of sweaty cloth, a hat….anything."

Gloin huffed, "and what do you plan on doing with them?"

Meara didn't flinch or hesitate when she met his gaze, "I'm going to set false trails that lead away from you. It will give you time to get a good distance away from the orc packs."

Thorin scoffed, "And how do you plan on doing that?"

Meara narrowed her eyes at him, letting her wolf forward just enough to weave a tendril of power around him. "Stop being so goddamn _stubborn_ and do as I ask, or would you _like_ to be caught by the orcs?"

Outwardly, it didn't appear that her power had any effect on him, but she kept staring Thorin down in challenge and just when she was about to let out a ferocious growl he looked away and gave a quick order. "Do as she says."

" _Thorin_ ," Dwalin gave a disapproving frown, but tore of a piece of clothing after a few moments of hesitation and a hard look from Thorin. The rest of the dwarves, and Bilbo soon followed. They each had ripped off a piece of their clothing and Meara went to quick work tying each end together making two necklaces of dirty dwarf cloth.

Without looking at the dwarves she put one around Alby's neck. "Take the forest path, you remember which one I showed you?"

Alby gave a quick nod and took off. Meara looked at the dwarves, "What are you still doing here? _Go_."

She took off at sprint in another direction, a path that she was sure not even the dwarves knew about—but something did, because she could smell its earthy scent and followed it anyways, even if she didn't know exactly what it was.

Meara scowled before skidding to a halt, half a distance away from the dwarves. She was too slow in her human form. Quickly undressing, she repositioned her weapons and urged herself to shift _and_ return to the dwarves before they reached the mountains. In a record six minutes, she was once again the Silver Terror and quickly nosed the trail markers onto her neck and swept into a wide trekked gait that had her deliberately rubbing against the trees and underbrush leaving whiffs of dwarves and her own scent—which was both a good thing and a bad thing. The wargs would want to take the route her scent wasn't occupying. They feared and tried to avoid her like she was the Black Plague incarnate. When rain started to fall, Meara growled.

 _Oh, great. Just what I needed. Rain._ Meara growled to herself. She ditched the dwarf rags and turned tail back to the path, hoping that the rain wouldn't wash away the dwarves scent before she got there. By the time she returned to where she left the dwarves, the rain was so heavy that streams formed on the small gravel road and the dwarves scents were all but depleted. Meara growled and then threw her head back in a long howl that sounded both beautiful and haunting at the same time. As the sound ceased, Meara listened intently over the sound of the rain. Just barely, she could hear Alby's responsive howl. She gave another short howl and headed in the direction of his howl. With a large gait, Meara thrust herself through the thick trees before coming upon a break in the forest where she found Alby, both skidding to a halt as they recognized each other.

"Quickly, before we lose their trail." Meara told him and turned and bounded up the mountain, Alby right behind her. They travelled farther up into the mountains, following the somewhat weak smell of dwarf that was quickly being diminished as the rain pelted on and the path grew steadily thinner. Meara huffed in annoyance as she heard the faint shouts of the dwarves just barely over the crashing of stones and thunder.

"What on earth…" Meara cut off her oath as she watched a giant stone man pull himself from the side of the mountain. With a low oath, Meara started her transformation, pulling back into her human form in a painful rush that left her ears in furry points and her hair a dripping mess—not that the five plaited braids would have survived her transformations in the first place. Ignoring the aches in her limbs, she forced herself to step into her clothes, her skin flaring in protest at her rough handling so soon after a change.

"Alby, come to me quickly!" Meara shouted at the warg, who seemed to have been a few paces behind her, frozen in shock at the stone giant. He snapped out of his daze and quickly went to Meara. She concentrated hard on the stone creature—or more like it's leg where she could clearly see part of the Company clutching to its legs. As Alby stepped up to her, she quickly picked him up, ignoring his shouts and wiggling of protest. "Be prepared. I'm going to throw you to its leg."

Alby only managed a strange squawking noise that sounded unnatural from his being. He landed with a thud on his feet before collapsing from the impact—or maybe from relief to making it across the large cavern. Meara walked as far as the stone wall would let her, giving her space to do a run and jump. She estimated it about a fifteen foot gap, one that steadily grew wider the more the stone giant moved. Best to cross now when it was manageable, she thought as she eyed the dwarves who were now yelling. With a sense of urgency, she made a running leap—just barely catching the stone pathway with her hands. Throwing something fifteen feet was a lot easier than trying to make a leap with about four steps to pick up momentum she noted to herself with a small grunt as she hefted herself up. Alby sat as far from the edge as he could get, glowering at her with his warg eyes, digging his nails as much as he could into the stone giants leg.

"Shush, you're fine." She told him with a small grin.

"I could have died."

"But you didn't. Besides, I wouldn't have allowed it." Meara sniffed haughtily and all but ran towards the sounds of the Dwarves calling for the others. She caught the sight of a few of the dwarves, grabbing a hold of Alby as she made her way to them. The stone giant began to move its legs, making Meara's stomach twist with an unpleasant feeling. Meara trapped Alby between the stone surface and her body, clutching at the stones hard enough to break her hand holds. Over the roaring of the stone giants and the pelting of the rain, Meara could just make out the shouts of the other dwarves and then Meara felt herself promptly get tossed onto her arse, with the breath knocked out of her as Alby landed right on top of her. She could hear Thorin yelling "No!" over and over. Thinking something wrong, Meara sat up quickly, depositing Alby onto the stone path beside her. But the moment she saw him come around the corner relief flashed across his face and he immediately went to his blond haired nephew, Fili. But it was Bofur who alerted them that someone is missing. "Where's Bilbo?! Where's the Hobbit!?"

Meara watched with trepidation as Ori and Bofur dove to grab his hands. She moved to go help, pressing dwarves to the side of the mountain as she passed, but it was much to her surprise that Thorin had put himself in danger to help lift the Hobbit back up to the ledge. A sigh of relief escaped her as Bilbo made it to safety, but was quickly halted as Thorin lost his own grip. But Dwalin had quickly grabbed hold of him and pulled him up to safety. Surprising her again, Dwalin looked at Bilbo, "I thought we lost our burglar."

"He's been lost," Thorin shot a dark look to the hobbit, "ever since he left home. He should never have come. He has no place amongst us."

Meara growled low in her chest, but it went unheard as Thorin paused to take notice of her presence and then disappeared into a crevice in the mountain side.

"Dwalin." She heard him call gruffly. "Search the back, caves in the mountain are seldom unoccupied."

She followed the dwarves into the mountain, allowing Alby to go in before her. "Are you hurt, Alby?"

The warg looked up at her, "No, though I would never like to return here ever again after this."

Meara gave a curt nod and settled herself by the opening of the cave. She watched as Thorin went about giving orders. "…we leave at first light."

"We were to wait in the mountains for Gandalf. That was the plan." Balin spoke, a frown marring his voice.

"Plan's change."

Meara couldn't help but butt in. "That is unwise."

The dwarves turned to her. "You have no say in this, woman. This journey is no place for a woman."

Meara arched a brow. "I've been in worse situations. Besides, I have something to gain out of this journey and if you think I have any inkling in obtaining any of your precious _gold_ , I can assure you, your _highness_ , that I wouldn't touch it even if you offered it."

The dwarf gave a snort. "You have no interest in the gold? Or the jewels? I doubt it."

Meara rolled her eyes. "Think what you like, I have had my fair share of treasures in the past. In the end, they're nothing but pieces of stone—cold and lifeless."

Thorin dismissed her, turning away in favor of settling in a spot as far from the cave opening as possible. Meara sighed, shaking her head.

"What did you mean about fair share in treasures?" Kili asked, drawing her attention the young dwarf and his brother. Meara stared at the two boys with a blank look. With a small sigh, she leaned back and tried to figure out what to say, but ended up deciding with the truth.

"I was born as a princess of a small kingdom on an island in my home realm. I grew up with small riches, and after my fathers' kingdom fell and we went elsewhere, I was amongst more riches. Silks, gold, diamonds, sapphires. The sacred moonstones. The finest leather. But none of it filled the loss of those I loved. None of it made my new home the old one. It wasn't until I let go of my want for my lost kingdom that I found my new home."

"You're a princess?" Fili asked with surprise.

Meara gave a smile, "At one point in my life, yes. But it is just a title. It holds no meaning anymore."

"You lost your _kingdom_. Did you not try to take it back?" This was Balin. Meara slowly shook her head.

"My kingdom had been small, trying to take it back would have gotten more people killed. A kingdom is only what its people make of it. Without them, the kingdom is just a place."

There was double meaning in Meara's words but she doubted that the dwarves heard it. She turned away from the dwarves and shut her eyes as a clear sign she no longer wished to speak. But even if she ended the conversation, memories still flashed across her closed lids.

She had been fifteen when the Normans invaded her small kingdom, fifteen and suddenly very alone in the world. Or almost. As the battle for the reign of her fathers' territory had come into full swing, catapults had been brought out. Meara, not as skilled as the older warriors yet, remained in the towers with a few of the servants and their children. It was loud and hot, half the castle was in flames or in ruin. There were soldiers of both Norman and Irish origin fighting each other in the halls and on the ramparts. Meara had been trying her best to protect the human servants, but when there were far older and far more skilled warriors coming against her—not to mention other werewolves—her success was not all that good. Ultimately, it was a catapult that broke her wavering defense and she, along with the remaining servants went down the mountain side and into the ocean.

Werewolves, being mostly pure muscle and not having enough fat, sank rather marvelously when they were introduced to water, the sinking more perilously quicker in wolf form. As a human there's more chance for survival, but there would be no hopes of treading water and attempting to save oneself. A cold fear had gripped Meara as she fell head long into the cold ocean waters. She kicked and strained, managing to break the surface of the water and gasp for air. Boulders and chunks of the remaining castle fell from the Cliffside, making large smacks in the water.

In a panic, Meara screamed for help, fighting her way—in a confounded dress on top of it—to stay above water and attempt to make it to shore. As her own dress pulled her down, taking her to a watery grave, hope left her and she resigned herself to watch the remainder of her home burn.

She shut her eyes and felt her face submerge in the water. And then, rough hands plucked her from the water and a familiar scent rolled into her nose. She couldn't help but blink in shock, "Lord Finnian?"

"As much as you annoy me, Lass, your father would have my head on a spike if I let you die." He gave a small glare to her as he set her down on the boat, where not even a handful of her father's pack sat, wet and tired, with oars as they made their way to land. Lord Finnian patted Meara on her head, who was rather subdued with her brush against death and loss of her home. "We'll find your father, Lass. Conan is a resourceful Alpha."

Meara looked at him briefly before nodding. She was ten when she and Lord Finnian came to an understanding with each other. A sort of mutual respect had settled between them, though occasionally Meara would completely disregard him—when it suited her needs. At the moment though, she had been grateful, if somewhat embarrassed that she had been rescued by him. Exhaustion had Meara's head drooping onto the side of the boat as she fell asleep. When she awoke again, Lord Finnian was carrying her up a sandy slope, explaining to their small party their destination. France. Her father's birthplace, and her Uncle's territory. It seemed they were going to be having a family reunion. Never mind that she'd only heard from him in letters.

"Is that wise, Lord Finnian? Uncle is not exactly…stable." Meara wrinkled her nose. Her uncle, Master Cheval, as he requested being called the last she spoke with him, had been writing about bloodlust and savory children. She shook herself as she remembered the worry and disgust that filled her. Werewolves were supposed to be noble, protective creatures. Her uncle had sounded like a…well an animal. Meara would soon wish that she'd never made that connection, for upon her party's arrival at her uncles' keep, she found her father restraining a rabid werewolf with silver fur similar to hers and her fathers', with dark patches of blood staining its fur and terrified humans and werewolves alike cowering away from the spectacle. It was only her and Lord Finnian's arrival that had saved her father from having to kill his little brother. Their combined presence of dominance forced Cheval's submission, and allowed Conan to lock the beast away in a dungeon of reinforced steal and silver.

Conan took over Cheval's territory, what was left of his pack and made another kingdom. Now that they weren't on an island, their people had more resources, more food. They grew in numbers and they grew in riches. If it weren't for the vampires' things might have been perfect. As it was, they had territory in France for only 100 years before the vampires finally over threw the Keep and destroyed it. The humans had become their prey, and the werewolves, though strong, had to flee, for their opponent had been the Main D'Argent Coven. A Coven of Vampires bred for the purpose of killing werewolves; with a Master who was well over a Millennia. It would have been a death sentence.

And so, that was how her pack went on the move again. Looking for another place to call home. Territory. Meara felt that maybe if she'd been there, if she hadn't been off training in Africa, it would have been different—hoped she could have made a difference…

Meara opened her eyes as light footsteps crept to her ears. She knew only one person in their little band that could walk that quietly. Bilbo.

"Where do you think you're going?" Bofur's soft accent came to her ears.

"Back to Rivendell."

"No! You can't turn back now! You're one of us, you're part of the company!" Bofur protested, gaining his feet as he spoke softly to Bilbo. Meara silently sighed to herself as she stood, stirring Alby beside her.

'I'm not now, am I?" Came Bilbo's reply. "Thorin said I never should have come and he was right. I'm not a Took. I'm a Baggins. I don't know what I was thinking; I never should have run out my door."

"You're homesick! I understand!" Bofur tried to sympathize with him, but Bilbo quickly cut him off.

"No! You Don't! None of you understand! You're Dwarves! Y-you're used to this life, to living on the road, to never settling in one place. To not belonging anywhere!"

Meara raised her brows at Bilbo. She never knew a Hobbit could be so…well harsh. Meara could see Bofur deflate as he listened to Bilbo, could sense the sadness that washed over him as he heard the harsh truth in his words.

Bilbo seemed to realize what he said. "I'm sorry."

Bilbo looked down in shame as Bofur looked to his sleeping comrades. "No, you're right. We don't belong anywhere." He looked back at Bilbo, resignation on his face, "I wish you all the luck in the world. I really do."

Meara stiffened as a retched smell filled her nose, she gagged just as she heard Bofur question Bilbo about something. She knew the smell, it was almost like the Orcs, but different somehow.

"Get up!" She coughed out, just as the sound of sand falling hit her ears and Thorin sat up echoing her command.

Then the floor fell out beneath them. Meara was the first to fall on the ground, grunting as she began to slide down a pathway, a dwarf's elbow in her back the whole way. As she dropped down into a basket like case, rickety in looks but strong enough to take not only her rough landing but the others as well. Meara let out a growl as all twelve dwarves, a hobbit and a warg fell on top of her.

"Get off!" She ground out as she stood anyways—the others dropping like dead flies behind her. They groaned and tried to disentangle themselves, but Meara was focused on a more

ressing matter. The hoard of mini orcs rushing at them. And they had nowhere to go and no room to spread out. Meara swore as the swarm grabbed her and the dwarves in a flurry of distracting body

movements. It was a struggle as the mini-orcs shoved her and the dwarves along—she had lost sight of Alby which sent a cold chill of dread through her body as they pushed her along. So clumsy were these creatures with their handling of their captives, combined with the narrow walkways, that they pushed each other over the edges, sending their comrades to their doom.

Over rickety bridges, passed cavern halls lit by torches, these goblins—for they were far too short to be orcs—led them deep into the mountain. Soon the rocky footing underneath turned to poorly made—yet somehow sturdy—paths. Meara was goaded by several of the little orcs, igniting her anger. She took deep breaths as she stored the anger at the back of her mind, walking calmly as the dwarves fought their captors. She would wait for the right time to release her anger.

A small goblin, perched on a post, swiped at her face. It missed her skin within inches but his hand caught in her hair, tugging her head back in an awkward angle. She growled with pain and swung her hand out, knocking the creature into the black void below.

Now she would wait for the right time to release her anger.

They turned around a bend in the walk way which opened up into a large cavern that was lit up with torches and filled to the brim with mini-orcs. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. The smell was twice as awful here as it was in the cave above.

The goblins jeered and goaded them as they were led to a goblin that was more than thrice their size and uglier than anything she's ever seen with loose skin on his neck flapping about with every movement he made. Meara scowled as she was stripped of her weapons.

"who would be so bold to come _armed_ into my kingdom? Spies? Thieves? _Assassins?!_ "

"Dwarves, your malevolence." A small goblin answered.

"Dwarves?" The giant goblin thing's voice screeched with every word and made Meara twitch uncontrollably. She needed to shut that thing up if she wanted her hearing—and her nose—to live through this.

"Found them on the front porch."

"Well don't just stand there! Search them! Every crack, every crevice!"

Goblins reached for her, but Meara wasn't having them touch her again. She growled low at the ones that came near her, her eyes melting into their golden counterparts. The Goblin King was oblivious to the goblins that retreated away from her.

"What are you doing in these parts?" the cavern became silent. "Speak!...Very well. If they will not talk, we'll make them squawk! Bring out the Mangler! Bring out the Bone Breaker! Start with the youngest!"

"Wait!" Thorin stepped forward and it was clear to Meara that the Goblin King knew who he was.

"Well, well, well! Look who it is! Thorin, Son of Thrain, son of Thror! _King_ Under the Mountain." He gave a surprisingly graceful bow for a creature such as himself. "Oh! But wait! I'm forgetting you don't have a mountain, and you're not a king. Which makes you, nobody really. I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head. Just a head, nothing attached."

He gave a wry smile to Thorin as he spoke, "Perhaps you know of who I speak. An old enemy of yours. A pale orc, astride a white warg!"

"Azog the Defiler." Thorin spoke softly, but it was so quiet that those closest to him heard. "He is destroyed. He was slain in battle long ago!"

"So you think his defiling days are done do you?" he gave a wheezing laugh and then commanded a goblin to fetch this Azog the Defiler.

Meara snorted, drawing attention to herself. "You'll be dead before you receive your reward, you piece of shit."

"And who are you, a weaponless, weak human, to make such threats?" The Goblin's voice boomed through the cavern indignant anger screeching his voice

With a laugh, she grabbed the nearest goblin and ripped him in half. The goblins screamed in rage and fear grappling with the dwarves and slashing at Meara with fear in their eyes. Bloodlust made Meara's gaze hazy. All she did was grab goblins as they launched themselves at her and the dwarves, ripping them apart, leaving a bloodbath on her clothes and the rocky ground beneath her. She looked around for her next prey as the goblins grappled for the dwarves, whacking them with slings. Her gaze locked onto the youngest dwarf in their Company. Ori. His eyes were wide and beneath all the blood, all the scents, she could smell his fear curling around her like chains. Slowly, she eased her claws back into her hands, allowed her eyes to dim to their molten brown. Because even if she knew herself to be a monster, even though she wasn't particularly fond of the dwarves, she didn't want them to fear her. Not truly.

The goblins seemed to sense the change in her and began attacking her. She let them, tearing her gaze away from the dwarves to glare hard at the Goblin King. He stood before them, moving about as he began to sing of their death. Meara wanted to cover her ears and shut her eyes. Not only was his singing disgustingly awful, his hanging neck flap kept jiggling about in a sickly manner.

And then there was a flash of light that blasted over everyone and sent the orcs flying.

"TAKE UP ARMS! FIGHT! FIGHT!"

Meara scowled as she reigned in her beast upon hearing Gandalf's voice.

 **What do you think? I changed it up a bit...or at least as much as I dared (mainly cause when I change things I get completely off topic and the main reason for the Hobbit section of this story is to introduce Meara and get a feel for her character. Nothing really gets changed until the END of the Hobbit during the Battle of the Five Armies.) Please Review! Reviews are my sparks to write! it's like drinking a good cup of coffee in the morning! :D**


	13. Into the Fire

**I know this took FOREVER for me to post and for that I apologize.**

Mariah scowled at the image in her hands.

"That bitch. Why isn't she dead yet? You told me she wouldn't survive in that world."

Mariah rolled her eyes, looking over her shoulder at the she-wolf raging behind her. The wolf had given her an offer she couldn't resist when she asked for her favor. How that sociopath got hold of that druid-turned-wolf's soul, Mariah didn't know; but she sure as hell wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"We are dealing with a whole new pantheon here, some things aren't going to go as planned. I don't know what they can do. They can be far greater than myself, or like a fly caught in my web."

The she-wolf growled, pacing with agitation, "Send me there."

Mariah paused, turning to look at the wolf with a raised eyebrow. "And do what? Meara would tear you apart before you even knew where to look for her."

With a snarl, the she-wolf lunged for Mariah. Just as her fingers were about to curl around her neck, something grabbed the she-wolf by the nape of the neck and tossed her into the wall behind her. "Temper, temper." Mariah tsked, "You'll never be Alpha if you can't even control that. Anyways, why should I waste my precious magic in sending you there? Meara is powerful, more so than you can handle."

"You lie, witch! If she weren't in my way, I could be the Alpha of the whole damn continent!"

Mariah let out a loud cackle that raised the hair's on the she-wolf's neck. "You can barely stand straight in front of Michael, what makes you think you can stand against Meara?"

"Her father is an Ancient! The oldest of them, I might add! No one stands a chance against him—not even Meara."

Mariah snickered, "The things you don't know, Wolf. I will send you, but your payment will be your life. If you fail to take Meara's power, you will remain in that world and suffer from their Pantheon. If you win….that will remain to be foretold."

"What do you mean?" The she-wolf frowned, her green eyes glowing with a barely controlled rage.

"I have not decided what I will reward you with. But all good things," Mariah gave a pleasant smile, as the she-wolf narrowed her eyes at her.

"Deal." The magic in the air thickened ten-fold as it wrapped itself around the werewolf and tugged her into the next dimension.

Mariah started to laugh, "All good things for _me_ that is. Young pups, so gullible."

* * *

Alby growled viciously as the sickly creature made itself known to him and the Hobbit they called Bilbo. He would have attacked the creature already if it weren't for the twinge he felt in his paw every time he set it down. He figured it must have been from the fall he took with the Halfling after the goblins grabbed the dwarves and Meara. His bad ear twitched with the memory of the fall. Bilbo had landed on top of him, and lucky for Alby, he landed on a bed of giant fungus. He was a little surprised that he didn't have more injuries but he supposed a hobbit that weighed fifty pounds would only knock the breath out of him and not break every bone in his body.

"Blesses and splashes, Precious." The creature gave Alby an ill feeling as it gave a menacing grin, revealing nine blackened, rot-filled teeth. "That's a meaty mouthful!"

Alby revealed his own teeth in a menacing manner, his own form of a wry smile as Bilbo lifted his "letter-opener" to the creatures' neck.

"S-stay back. I'm warning you!" Bilbo stuttered. "Don't c-come any closer!"

The creature slithered away slightly, muttering darkly to itself, "It's got an elvish blade, but it's not an elf. It's got a warg but it's not an orc. What is it, precious? What is it?"

Alby's eyes narrowed. It had knowledge of the world outside the mountain.

"M-my name is Bilbo Baggins." Alby shot the Hobbit a look, wondering what on earth he was doing trying to talk to that thing.

"Bagginses? What is a Bagginses, prescious?"

"I-I'm a Hobbit from the Shire—

"Oh! We like goblinses, batses and fishes but we hasn't tried hobbitses before!"

Alby curled himself around Bilbo as the creature before them began to slowly advance on them. "Is it soft? Is it juicy?"

Bilbo began to wave his sword around, mindful of the warg pup wrapped around him that was growling softly. "K-keep your distance! I will use this! If I have to!"

Alby let out a louder growl as the creature let its own growl out.

"I don't want any trouble! Just show me the way out and we will be on our way!"

"Why? Is it lost?"

"Yes, yes! And we would like to get unlost, so if you please…"

Alby curled his lip again as the creature's air immediately changed, "Oh! We knows! We knows the way! Safe paths for hobbitses! Safe path in the dark! Shut up!"

"I didn't say anything."

The creature sneered at him from the rock he sat behind, "Wasn't talking to you. Well, yes we was precious."

"Look, I don't know what your game is…"

"Games! Oh we love games! Doesn't we precious? Does it like games? Does it?"

Alby growled at the creatures' sudden movement, his legs tensing. Bilbo, still holding his sword up, gently pat him on his side as if to say it's ok. Alby gave the hobbit a once over. He was terrified, shaking slightly, though he seemed to be a bit calmer now that the thing was telling him a riddle. Alby didn't like the way the creature seemed to act like there was another of it. It was scheming and Alby wasn't too sure he could take this creature down without Meara's help. With a growl, he looked around the cave as he and Bilbo traded riddles. There was a form of lake down here, and there were plenty of fish bones lying around to prove fish lived in it.

"Iiiis iiittt ssccrruummpptttiooouuss? Is it crunchable!?"

Alby turned with a vicious growl at Bilbo's gasp. Alby ducked as Bilbo swiped his sword around. "Let me think!"

Alby let out a huff, looking back to the creature with a keen eye. It sat upon a large rock, mocking Bilbo. "Time's up."

When the creature moved, Alby growled at him, drawing the creature's attention until Bilbo turned to him. "Time! The answer is time!"

Alby didn't like the look it gave Bilbo as he spoke. "Last question. Last chance. Ask us…ASK US!"

Alby looked at Bilbo in alarm, barking to get him to hurry up. "Yes, yes. Alright."

Bilbo turned toward the lake, looking into the water, deep in thought… "What have I got in my pocket?"

Alby tilted his head. He was pretty sure that wasn't a riddle. Alby sniffed at him, wondering exactly what was in his pocket, but the creature's whining turned his attention before he could figure it out.

"Ask us another!"

"No, you said ask me a question. Well that is my question! What have I got in my pocket?"

Alby felt his stomach drop as the creature began to pace. There was something terribly wrong with this creature. It was dark he knew, but not like the Wargs, not like the orcs. This was a different kind of dark, and it made Alby want to run and hide. He didn't want to leave Bilbo though. Alby remembered what Meara told him when they headed to cut off the dwarves. _"Keep a watchful eye on all of them. We are here to protect them, even if I want to strangle the life out of them."_

As the creature fell to the ground in tears, Alby grabbed Bilbo by his sleeve, attempting to lead him away. "I won the game, you promised to lead us to the way out."

Alby tugged harder, with a growl managing to pull him down a path as the creature began to scream.

* * *

"You thought you could escape me!?" The Goblin King appeared before them through the bottom of the bridge. "What are you going to do now, Wizard?"

Meara moved as Gandalf was brought back to standing by the dwarves. With a quick swipe, she drove her blade deep into the goblin king's throat, cutting where she assumed his major artery would be. With a choked cry he fell forward. With a loud crack, the bridge began to give way. With the dwarves screaming and the scrape of the wood against stone, Meara clutched her hands to her ears, grimacing as they made their way down the cavern. At the last minute, Meara jumped, tucking herself into a roll just as the bridge hit the floor.

"Well that could've been worse!"

Meara turned around, looking at the dwarves piled in with wood. Then the Goblin King fell on top of them. They all groaned. "You've got to be joking!"

With a snort, Meara started towards the dwarves, helping them out of the rubble.

"Gandalf!"

Meara's head shot up to where Kili lay. Her eyes followed his eyes up. She let out a Gaelic oath.

"There's too many! We can't fight them!"

Meara quickly grabbed Kili and the others from the rubble.

"Only one thing will save us—Daylight! Come on!"

Meara gave a snort that went unnoticed, and began to follow the dwarves. It seemed as if they were travelling through a labyrinth, if it weren't for the air, or Gandalf leading them, Meara wondered if they would escape. A feeling of relief quickly filled her as they left the cave and went into the remaining daylight. Her relief was short lived as she turned in a circle, her gaze searching for a blur of white fur.

"Where's Bilbo? Where's our hobbit?!"

"Alby?" Meara called. When she didn't get an answer, she cupped her hands and howled.

"What is she doing? Are you mad!?" With a small growl, Meara cut her howl off as she felt Thorin grab her arm to quickly yank on it.

Meara stared down at him with a quiet anger, "Let go of my arm, dwarf, before I rip it from your body."

"ENOUGH."

Meara and Thorin looked to Gandalf as he glared at them. "Arguing is not going to help us find Bilbo and Alby."

"I think I saw Bilbo slip away when they first cornered us." Nori spoke up, looking a little green in the face.

"Was Alby with him?" Meara asked, her heart hammering. The beast within her became restless, pacing around as an ominous presence in the back of her mind. Alby was hers to protect, she was supposed to keep him safe and she'd failed to do that. Taking a calming breath, Meara turned to the dwarves as they accused Bilbo of leaving them and heading for home. She opened her mouth to give a sharp retort when the crashing of feet in the trees had her swiveling back towards the mountain. Right away, she knew it was Alby, and felt her heartbeat calm to a steady rhythm. On the breeze she caught the briefest scent of Bilbo, and knew he was close by.

"Alby," she called out.

The warg pup loped into view ears twitching as he came up to Meara. As Alby came to a halt beside her, she looked around for Bilbo, finding no traces of him, though his scent had become a lot stronger than before.

"Are you well, Alby?" Meara asked, breaking her search for the hobbit. Though his footsteps seemed muffled to her ears, she could certainly smell how close he was, which puzzled her. If his scent indicated that he was so close, why did it sound as if he were running towards them from leagues away? Meara broke herself from her musings as Alby gave a loud huff.

"As well as I can be. That Hobbit is small but having one land on you is not pleasant at all."

Meara smiled. Alby had grown a lot since they had departed her small territory. He'd barely come up to her thigh when they began their journey, but now his back stood at her waist—he could easily carry Bilbo on his back with no problem. And his voice had become deeper. He nearly sounded as if he had reached maturity. She rubbed his good ear affectionately as her own delicate ears picked up the Dwarves and their musings on Bilbo's whereabouts.

"I'll tell you what happened," Thorin raged, "Mr. Baggins saw his chance and took it. He's thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since he left his door. We will not be seeing our hobbit again."

Meara opened her mouth to defend the Halfling, a small anger brewing in her, but shut it as the hobbit appeared as if from mid-air in their midst.

"No! He isn't." The company startled as they looked upon him, several calling out to him in pleased astonishment.

"Bilbo Baggins! I've never been so happy to see anyone in my life!" Gandalf approached the hobbit, relief etched across his features. Meara raised a brow as Alby approached the hobbit and gave a small affectionate lick to Bilbo's face before retreating back to Meara. She quirked a brow at the warg, musing to herself that he was still a pup in some aspects. She also wondered what transpired between the hobbit and warg that caused Alby to revere the hobbit with respect.

"How on earth did you get passed the goblins?" Fili wondered aloud, with Dwalin also voicing his own surprise, though sounding, to Meara's ears much less enthusiastic.

Meara found something amiss with Bilbo though. He gave an awkward laugh, pushing his hands in his pocket, and for a moment Meara thought she saw a glint of metal, but brushed the curiosity aside as she switched her attention back to the aggravating Thorin Okenshield.

"It matters! I want to know. Why did you come back?"

Meara would have rolled her eyes at the stubborn dwarf, but she could see his reasoning for his question. Bilbo _was_ a stranger to him and not of his own people. Many would doubt a person in Bilbo's position to join on such a journey. Meara herself had obvious ulterior motives, aside from Gandalf's request, she's stated so. Bilbo, though signed to the Company with a contract, had no other reasons to continue on with the quest—aside from being legally bound to the dwarf's aid. With an almost disbelieving smile playing on her lips, Meara felt her respect for the hobbit rise as he stated his reason for returning. She marveled at Bilbo's kindness, though she supposed, despite Thorin and the rest of the dwarves rather sickening mannerisms, that Bilbo—and perhaps herself as well—have grown rather fond of them.

The dwarves, after Bilbo's profession, were uncharacteristically quiet as they stood about. Meara was a bit relieved at the silence—dwarves were very loud creatures—but relief soon turned quickly to alarm as the sound of growling and shuffling feet reached her ears. Wargs and Orcs. And there were many, only half a league away from them.

"Gandalf." She said in warning, just as the first of the howls' resonated into the air, breaking the silence.

"Out of the frying pan…" Thorin muttered darkly.

"…And into the fire! Run. RRRuuuunnnn!" Gandalf finished, gravely.

Meara looked down to Alby as he let out a partial whine. This would be his first encounter with other Wargs since his joining her. Back at Rivendell, she had kept him away from the other Wargs as he had been smaller and an easier target to kill. "Come, Alby!"

She followed behind at a slow pace behind the dwarves, listening for the Wargs that were gaining distance on them fairly quickly. Meara whipped around as three Wargs came upon behind her. Two continued onward, but the third growled out opening its jaws to grab hold of her head. She lifted her hands, releasing her control on the beast inside her, and grabbed the Wargs open jaws. Eyes glowing, Meara gave a low growl as the Warg began to thrash and whimper pitifully. With a sharp yank, and a sickening crack, Meara dropped the Warg to the ground. Her hands bled where its teeth had cut into her flesh, the bone of one of her fingers visible as she glanced at them. Turning, she continued onward, giving the wounds little heed as she felt her skin start to grow and knit back together.

Meara nodded in approval as she saw the dwarves had quickly taken care of the other two Wargs—one she noted with smug approval had Bilbo's sword still stuck firmly in its skull, even as he tugged to pull it out. With an approving pat on the shoulder, she quickly wrenched the blade from its victim and ushered him forward.

"Up into the trees, quickly!" Gandalf called out.

Frowning, Meara looked about, noting that they were at a dead end. A cliff. She scowled at their lack of luck, and nearly tossed Bilbo too high in the tree. She looked around and found Alby cowering slightly at the base of a tree. She all but flew to him, and touched him gently. Something was off. He reeked of terror. "Alby?"

"Lady Meara!" She didn't know who shouted her name, though she was sure that voice belonged to Fili, but it was enough of a warning to turn on a whim and stand in front of her warg pup.

She let go of her control a little more, a deafening roar breaking from her lips that halted the pack that approached her. **"Hear me, Warg Pack. I am the Silver Terror, and I will destroy any who approach me!"**

A few whined, lowering their head to a wolf of a higher hierarchy, others growled in challenge but made no move to step forward.

"Meara." Alby whimpered. "It's…"

The growling Wargs quieted as another figure appeared, bearing a rider. The warg was the biggest Meara had seen with white fur similar to Alby's. If Meara were to be honest, she'd say that the Warg could be as big as she was—maybe even bigger—which left a sour taste in Meara's mouth. Her glowing gold eyes, moved down to Alby as the smell of terror grew tenfold.

Alby spoke in despair and fear to answer the questioning gaze of the Silver Terror. "Mother."

 **Wow this was a really short chapter. Im so sorry.**

 **Okay, so I know some are going to be a bit confused. At the beginning of the chapter, this is in Earth in Mariah Kernovski, the witch who sent Meara to Middle-Earth's lair. The purpose is to both add a villian/character to the story and to also show/give a reason for Meara being sent to Middle-Earth. I know the scene is brief and we aren't introduced to who exactly the new character is yet, but that will be touched upon in future chapters. I also threw in a scene to touch upon Alby's relationship with Bilbo which will also be important for later chapter's...Am I missing anything...Oh yea! Was Alby's heritage surprising? Cause I wanted it to be a surprise but I felt like it was exceedingly obvious who his mother was simply cause you know he has similar fur colorings and we know of only one warg with white fur...Anyways...**

 **I was also a little weary of Meara and her relation to her invulnerability. I know I don't spare into detail enough, which I really need to work on, so it may seem that Meara is invulnerable-which she is-but she is also not. If that makes sense. As I've stated way earlier in the story, werewolves in Meara's world, don't live long because they are violent and headstrong. Depending upon their skills, temper and dominance, they can be killed because they were too angry to assess a situation and act tactfully or for an example if they were fighting in a challenge, they weren't skilled enough to win that challenge-which they usually end in death unless special reasons are taken into effect which is also part of the dominance thing. The older a werewolf gets, the more dominant they become. However, a werewolf can obtain dominance by killing a werewolf of a higher dominance level, usually that doesn't work out, hence the younger werewolf dies. What sets Meara apart from the rest of the werewolves is that she is hella old. Even if you take away the times she has jumped universes/dimensions, at 865, Meara is still considered old. Her age, and her perfect control over the animal side of being a werewolf make her a very dominant wolf. On top of that, she is a skilled warrior. She knows how to use most modern weapons as well as a bow, knives, swords and miscalleanous objects. She grew up in a time similar to Middle-Earth, without the grandeur. As an enforcer for her own exceedingly old father, she has dealt with wolves of the same size and standing as Wargs. The scene at the end of the chapter with her hands was kind of a show that she still gets injured, she is still capable of dying. To me, it seemed that Meara seemed a little too nondestructive, especially when writing a multitude of the scenes, and I just wanted to clarify that she is (but she isn't) and that it's my lack in writing her interactions with orcs and wargs that she seems like your average superman rip-off.**

 **That was a lot longer than I planned.**

 **Anyways, read and review...I'm pretty sure someone is going to accuse me of writing a Meara-Sue.**

 **Haha, see what I did there? That was purposeful.**

 **Ah, yes. And I have been drawing out my character's. Literally. I've been drawing them. And I was debating on whether to post them or not...any thoughts?**


	14. Eagles and Bears

Meara growled low in her throat. She stared down this warg, the Matriarch, as some of the warg's growled out the word as she passed them. What slightly surprised her, was the wargs' who looked to her, growling out, "Challenger."

The Orcs were jeering, lifting their weapons and egging each other on. It quieted as the Matriarch passed them, a great white orc astride her back. He had over a dozen scars crisscrossing over his body, his left forearm missing with a pronged weapon shoved into the joint. When he began to speak, Meara could hear the darkness in his words, the threat in them. With a snort, she turned to Alby and picked him up.

"Catch!" She yelled up to the dwarves.

It took effort on both Alby and the dwarves' part, but they managed to keep him up in the tree. Meara turned to the Orc Pack behind her, eyes glowing gold as she reached for her sword. The ring of her sword withdrawing from its scabbard drew the Orcs' attention to her, the light of the moon glinting ominously on the silver of her blade.

"Who's first?" Meara smiled, letting her bloodlust simmer to the surface. The very air around her changed, becoming heavy with tension. The wargs closest to her and rider-less, shrank away, whining. However, a few more words from the pale orc, had the wargs, with renewed courage attacking. Some went for the dwarves in the trees, a few made the mistake of attacking her head on. With a few swift strikes of her blade, the wargs lay at her feet. She was mildly aware of the wargs attacking the dwarves, bringing down the trees and the dwarves jumping to different trees until they were all in one, above her. Despite this awareness, her attention was riveted on the Matriarch, a need to shed blood clouding her senses. And then the orc riders swarmed in.

Scowling, Meara focused her attention on the foes in front of her. Then a familiar panicked yip caught her attention. Meara drove her blade through an orcs face, then turned to look at Alby. Only, she found the warg pup hanging by his front paws on a toppled tree, fire blazing around them.

"Alby!" Bilbo and Meara shouted. With a guttural growl, Meara jumped to Alby, the tree shuddering with her quick steps. She grabbed Alby by the scruff of his neck just as he slipped, a sigh of relief escaping them both. With a small grunt, she lifted the warg back onto the tree, looking to the Cliffside as she did. Fire spread everywhere, keeping the cowardly wargs away from toppling the tree any further. But Thorin stood alone, facing the pale orc astride the Matriarch. Meara knew he had no chance. Maybe if the orc had been alone, it would have been more of a fair match, but the Matriarch was huge, and once Thorin was grasped between her jaws…Meara felt her heart sink and rage bloom. Her eyes cut to the dwarves still standing dumbstruck on the tree.

"Will you not rally? Will you not defend him?" The words were not spoken in common tongue, nor any language the dwarves knew, but the meaning behind it was understood. The dwarves that were able, hefted themselves up, and raced toward Thorin's assailant. Meara studied the orc and matriarch. She dully noted that the orc had ordered another to do the killing blow. Another who was defeated by Bilbo Baggins. Pride swelled for him in Meara, a fond smile gracing her lips as the other dwarves' attacked the orc riders that sauntered towards Bilbo's childlike frame.

Meara's eyes snapped toward the Matriarch, feeling eyes on her being. But it wasn't her that watched her. Another Warg, fitted with riding gear but rider-less watched her. It wasn't a challenging gaze, like the one she dealt to the Matriarch, but one of curiosity. Aggression was absent in this wargs' stance, and instead it looked tired, exhausted even. That's when Meara noticed the gray sprinkled throughout the wargs dark fur. A veteran, she mused. The warg licked his chomps and then dipped his head before turning and sauntering away from the orc pack. Alone and unnoticed.

With a frown, Meara hefted Alby over her shoulders, ignoring his protests as she balanced her way back to solid ground. She was about to set him down when the loud shriek of an eagle blasted into her ears. Her eyes went skyward, spying several large birds swooping low. One picked up Thorin as others attacked the wargs, picking them up and then dropping them, either over the cliff or into the fire. One swooped down, its talons stretching for her and Alby. Meara adjusted Alby, stretching an arm out to grab onto the eagles' claw.

A grunt escaped Meara as the great bird gripped her and Alby tightly in its' claw. Meara tightened her grip on Alby, frowning up at the bird. Eagles. Big Eagles. Meara swung her gaze around, looking to the fiery cliff they were being carried away from. She'd dwell on the eagles of oddly large size later. Her eyes zoomed and locked onto the Matriarch, the wargs' eyes trained on Meara. Both stared each other down, eyes narrowed in a clash of gold and yellow, until they could no longer see each other upon the horizon.

The eagles flew far over the land, giving Meara plenty of time to think about all that she'd learned so far. The Matriarch is Alby's mother. She'd heard of her for sure, but she never made the connection between her and Alby. Like werewolves, Meara assumed that the wargs varied in several different shades of fur, it was definitely not the case. Most of the wargs' she's seen in the past seventeen years had been in varying shades of brown and the rare grey. The Matriarch was the only known white warg, prestigious amongst the Gungabad wolves. She was also the largest and nastiest wolf if the malicious aura around her was anything to go by. Meara glanced down at Alby, who looked a little sick as he gazed at the trees and mountains that passed underneath his feet. She expected that the Matriarch had wanted a successor that inherited her great qualities. White fur, large size, aggressive behavior. Alby, though white, lacked in those aspects. He was aggressive when he needed to be, but otherwise calm in nature, and for a two year old Warg he was rather on the small side, about the size of a pony really. Meara sighed. The Matriarch would have killed Alby had she gotten the chance. Meara wondered for a brief moment why the Warg hadn't killed him when she first realized he wouldn't be what she wanted him to be, but quickly put the thought out of her mind as the eagle crested over a mountain side, preparing to land.

Loosening its claws, the eagle dropped Meara and Alby on the cliff top, its large wings sending dust flying into the air as it settled beside them. Meara gave the eagle a critical look, taking in its features. For all the world it looked like a normal golden eagle, save its large eyes and the intelligence that twinkled in its eyes.

"You and your warg friend are heavy."

Meara blinked. Talking giant eagle? Honestly, the surprise that briefly flit through her shouldn't have been there, and yet here she was. Surprised.

"You speak?"

The bird snorted, giving her a condescending look, "Of course, I speak. I am one of Manwë's Eagles. Now go, your friend is hurt."

With those words, the eagle lifted up and away as other eagles glided by dropping off dwarves one after the other. And then an eagle hovered over the cliff top, setting down an unconscious Thorin. Meara listened carefully, hearing his heart beat, albeit very weakly. Gandalf came forward where the largest eagle had set him down.

Gandalf kneeled beside the dwarven prince, chanting under his breathe with his hand outstretched over the dwarf's face. Gandalf's scent flared in the air as his magic washed over Thorin and helped his lungs to breath in air. Unwittingly, Meara's body broke out into a small shiver as Gandalf's scent wafted through the air and circled all around her. It wasn't a challenging feeling she was getting, but a feeling she was familiar with. The aura that Gandalf's magic expelled had the same effects of the presence of an omega. These wolves were treasured by all because of their rarity and ability to calm and reconcile other werewolves.

The magic washed away, and Meara found herself giving the Wizard a calculating look. He was far more powerful than he was letting on, Meara knew that from the moment she met him. He had the makings of an Alpha wolf, but what made him Omega was his non-use of that command—sure he led the dwarves and stepped on a few toes but he wasn't _commanding_ them. Manipulating would be a better term, though it seemed it wasn't for his own personal gain. Very omega-ish. Meara shook the idea that was floating around in her mind; not only was it completely crazy, it would never work, especially because he's a wizard to begin with. Things tend to get messy when you mix werewolves with magic, Meara being in Middle-Earth is proof of that.

The strength of Gandalf's magic in the air lessened as Thorin blinked open his eyes, registering the wizard's face hovering over him. "The Halfling?"

Gandalf smiled, "It's alright. He's here; he's quite safe."

Thorin lumbered to his feet, Dwalin and Kili helping him as he struggled slightly. Shrugging them off as he faced Bilbo, he gave the Hobbit an unreadable look, "You! What were you doing? You nearly got yourself killed!"

Meara bristled, frowning at the dwarf prince with impatience. To Meara's surprise, Alby stood beside Bilbo, silent but watchful. Again, Meara found herself wondering what happened between Alby and Bilbo that earned such trust.

"Did I not say you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild? And you had no place amongst us?"

Meara glanced at all the dumbstruck dwarves and Gandalf. They were all shocked into silence as they watched Thorins' displeasure of Bilbo's actions.

"I've never been so wrong in my life!" Thorin gripped Bilbo into a hug, a grin spreading across his face. Meara shook her head, a disbelieving chuckle escaping her lips. If there was one thing Meara was sure about Thorin, it was that he was one dramatic dwarf.

As the group warmed with cheers, Meara looked over the mountain side they were on, her gaze zooming in on what could only be called a lonely mountain. Erebor. She heard the dwarves begin to talk about the mountain, how they were half way there. Meara looked down at Alby as she heard him approach, giving him a fond smile, "There's still a long way to go, little Alby."

"The longer the distance, the more the adventure." He gave her a wolfy grin before trotting away and bumping his head against Bilbo in a playful manner. Meara's fond smile turned into an amused one as she took in Bilbo and Alby.

"You, woman."

The smile slipped away as Meara turned her attention to the dwarf prince and Dwalin who watched her with narrowed eyes. Though the other dwarves were making themselves busy by finding a way down the mountain side or checking their weapons, she knew they were listening.

"What are you? Some kind of demon?" Dwalin lifted his axe with menace at the question. She heard Gandalf scoff where he was quietly listening.

With the roll of her eyes, Meara let out a scoff of her own. "Yes, I am a werewolf, Mr. Dwalin."

The dwarves were quiet, pausing in their actions as Meara's statement sank in. They were all still until Gandalf stood with a mighty scowl on his face. "You are hardly a demon, Lady Meara. I have seen you in your other form and you are no demon giving out random death—not unless you are threatened!"

The dwarves, still silent, blinked back and forth between Meara and Gandalf as she gave a smirk and shrug, her gaze going back to the dwarf prince. "I am a werewolf, Prince Thorin. And I am in your service. That's all you need to know."

Meara turned away and made to go down the mountain, ignoring any remarks the dwarves made in her passing.

Things were awkward at first, but after a short time of travelling, the dwarves began to ask Meara questions along the lines of "what is a werewolf?" (They did know what a werewolf was after all there were tales of them, but they had the distinct feeling that their tales of werewolves were quite different than the kind of werewolf Meara is) and of course what kind of form she took.

Thus on the next full moon, Meara joined the company for the night. Meara found it amusing when the dwarves spluttered over themselves at the mere size of her form emerging from the shadows. There was unrest amongst the dwarves at her first appearance as a large silver-furred wolf. They didn't truly relax around her until Fili made the connection that she was the same wolf that saved Kili from the Orc Pack. Meara had to admit it was more liberating for them to know of her other form, allowing her to travel amongst the dwarves as both human and wolf.

Now that they knew they were being hunted, their pace was much quicker and they relied more on Bilbo and Meara's stealth amongst the trees and foliage. They'd send Meara forward to scout for dangers in the future, and Bilbo backwards to scout where the remaining Orc Pack was. Meara was returning to the group, when a strange smell captured her attention. It was a strong mixture of musk and hay, what made her pause was the scent of bear, cow and horse. An odd mix.

And then she heard it. It was a loud roar that sounded similar to a werewolf roar, but different. If she had the scent to go by anything, she'd say it was maybe some type of monstrous bear. Curiosity had always been her weakness. Following the direction of the roar, Meara recalled the last time her curiosity got the best of her.

She'd been travelling through Africa looking for "the Dragon Tooth", a sword that, as legend has it, was carved from a High Dragons tooth. Her demeanor at two weeks into the Congo, was less than amused. With Botfly's buzzing for an opening, mosquito's that didn't let up, and worst of all, the searing hot temperatures. As a werewolf, her natural body heat was exceedingly high, most thinking she had some form of fever when they touched her. The blazing heat of the African sun was most unwelcomed on Meara's sun-tinted skin. For once she wished that her Father had entrusted this miserable, albeit important, task to someone else.

With a disgruntled huff, Meara continued travelling through the jungle, pausing every so often to listen to the jungle around her. She was nearly to the heart of the jungle when a strange scent curled into her nose. It was the distinct musk of werewolf on the scent that made Meara pause in her forward trek. Indecision had Meara paused for an untellable amount of time, switching her gaze from the path to the Dragon's Tooth, and the direction this werewolf had gone. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her though, for what reason could a werewolf have to be in the worst climate for them, other than to retrieve something? So Meara turned off her intended path and followed the strange werewolf's scent.

She had tracked him all the way out of the Congo and into the nearest village. She found nothing but panic. The dark skinned natives of the land were screaming, women and children running from the center of the village and men, carrying spears and scythe's, rushed in the direction the women were running from. Meara followed, drawing her own blade—as it would be more effective against a werewolf with its silver blade. Meara raced along with the warriors of the village, her sudden appearance only allowed because of the more apparent danger.

When Meara came upon the carnage the werewolf was ensuing, she paused. She knew immediately that this werewolf was new, at least new enough not to have complete control over himself yet. His fur was so black it gleamed blue in the sunlight and his wolf eyes were a startling shade of blue—rare amongst natural wolves and even rarer amongst werewolves. Meara turned to the warriors, speaking the native language with a fluency that surprised the warriors.

 _"Don't attack him. If anyone is injured beyond saving, behead them and burn their corpse. I will deal with the Demon Wolf and lure him away from your village, Brothers."_

Meara didn't wait for them to take or refuse her orders, she approached the wolf, who was tearing into the side of a camel, its owner dead, and crushed beneath it. The wolf paused in its eating, his head swinging to watch her movements. Meara called her own wolf forward, her brown eyes turning gold, and stared the wolf down. He didn't like it.

"Do you understand me, Pup?" She asked in the common language—latin.

There was no response. Just a menacing growl as the black wolf abandoned the camel carcass and started stalking her.

She tried several different other languages before she tried the native language again. " _Do you understand me, Pup?"_

The wolf paused. Huh, Meara thought, an African Wolf, there's a first—not that they couldn't be werewolves, but there _were_ such things as were-lions. Meara mentally shook herself to concentrate. She arched a brow at the wolf. _"Do you realize what you are doing? You are letting the beast take your humanity. Is that what you want? To be an animal?"_

The vibrant blue eyes of the wolf dulled ever so slightly, enough that Meara knew the man behind the fur was if not in control, at least listening.

" _Come on then, before they realize we are the same kind of creature."_

Meara started running out of the village, the wolf trailing behind her at a fast lope. She could hear some of the villagers' cheering as the distance between the werewolves and village grew. Meara didn't stop their fast paced trek until they were at least a two days journey from the village.

Turning to the wolf, Meara gave him a calculating look. " _Change back. Now."_

The wolf looked a little stricken as he processed the words. Scowling, Meara let her wolf come forward and pull the man from the wolf. It was something only an ancient and dominant werewolf could do. Though Meara should be about three hundred at this time, her recent adventures through the other realms have left her nearly a thousand years old and in the exact moment she left. Naturally, she kept her ancient status a secret from even her own father.

With the pop and breaking of bones, the wolfs' black fur began to melt away, revealing smooth dark skin. Meara blinked at the man now kneeling before her, recovering from the change with deep breathes. His hair, as black as his wolf fur, was twisted into dreadlocks, hanging around his shoulders like a curtain. When he lifted his head, Meara found herself looking into deep pools of cool steel. She also found herself rather attracted to the man. Meara physically shook her head, hardening her gaze as she crossed her arms over her chest.

" _Care to explain yourself, Pup?"_

He wrinkled his nose, straightening himself to his full height, his very naked full height. Of course, being a werewolf, Meara was used to nudity. Her eyes stayed on his.

" _I am not a pup, as you so call me, She-Wolf. Are you the demon who turned me?"_ Meara rather enjoyed the sound of his voice. Deep with power, yet somehow soft. She gave him a scowl; for his accusation and her attraction to him.

" _I am not a demon, Pup, and if I were the one to have turned you, you would know it."_ Meara stepped toward him, her eyes returning to their normal brown. " _The wolf who turned you, do you remember anything about it? Male, female? A scent, anything?"_

He growled at her approach, taking a step back. A slight fear trickled into his eyes as he released his growl, _"No, stay away. I cannot fully control myself, yet."_

Scowling, Meara approached anyway, " _You will not harm me. I am much older than you, and I am Alpha to your wolf."_ Meara paused, " _Though it is possible that you may very well be a dominant wolf yourself."_

" _Dominant?"_ He looked down at his hands with trepidation. Meara placed her hand on one of his, as a sort of comforting gesture—she always forgets that being made into a werewolf is different than being born as one.

" _It's okay. Being dominant just means you have a strong will. Whether you are dominant or not doesn't make you a monster. It's control. If you can control the beast, you have nothing to fear. A pack and a strong Alpha will help."_ Meara offered her hand in greeting, " _I am called Meara."_

 _"Amare."_

Meara gave him a smile, and found that she was overly grateful for her curious intent. Her smile turned into a smirk as her eyes did a once over of the man before her. Very grateful indeed.

A pang went through Meara as she followed the bear scent right back to the Company. Oddly enough, they were running quite frantically into open plain toward a large cabin that had smoke billowing from its chimney. Alby ran amidst them, Bilbo gripping the fur on his back.

Then a great bear crashed through the trees they just ran from and barreled towards them. Meara let out a long roar as she sprang into action, racing the distance toward the dwarves and crashed into the bear just before he reached the humble cottage. They tumbled in a mess of arms and limbs as they snapped and growled at each other. Meara's jaws ripped viciously into the bear's back, her teeth crunching down on far too much fur to be anywhere near lethal.

Meara jumped away from the bear, its claws swiping down across her side in the process. Baring her fangs, Meara half growled and half groaned. She hated bears. If there was one thing that could kill a werewolf, it was a bear—a grizzly to be more precise—but they lacked the knowledge to actually plan attacks. This bear, however, had eyes that gleamed with intelligence, though feral in nature. And this bear was about twice the size of a grizzly.

If Meara could scowl, she would, but as it were, her wolf form let out an indignant huff before she turned and ran for the trees. The earth practically shook with the bear charging after her. For once, there was a stitch in Meara's side as her wound started, very slowly, stitching itself back together. Though all of her movement kept reopening the wound. If she didn't stop long enough for the skin to heal she could very well bleed out and kill herself in the process.

Meara slowed her pace, just enough to stay ahead of the bear and allow herself to heal. She noticed the bear had also slowed, though not by much. Meara wondered if it knew it had injured her. In a gentle lope, Meara arched around, heading back towards the cottage the dwarves were sheltering in. The bear seemed to be aware of her intention, and sped up with a warning growl. Meara growled back, annoyance filling her. If she had the time and it weren't a full moon, Meara would gladly change back and shoot the bear in the face with an arrow.

Meara threw her head back and howled. She got a very faded howl back from Alby. With a deep breath, Meara picked up her pace tenfold, figuring the wound was closed enough not to kill her. She ran at a fast pace that sent the scenery around her into a dark blur. When the cottage came into view, a small form of relief filled her as she saw an open door with Alby and Gandalf peering around the door frame. Unfortunately, the bear was practically right behind her. Diving for the door, Meara practically slid into the cottage, Gandalf, Alby and a few dwarves that were still awake slamming the door shut and locking it just before the great bear slammed into it.

 **Hehe. So this chapter is dedicated to all my followers who waited patiently for this chapter that was two weeks late. I have no excuse. I was being a little shit and not writing when I should have and could have been. In my own defense though I for whatever reason just could not write most of this chapter eloquently. I think it's because I was coming to the end of one movie and the beginning of another, which I didn't have a lot of material to work with. On the brightside, that's over and done with and I should be spitting chapters out much more frequently (I hope)...**

 **I have also set up an Instagram account to post my renderings of the characters, though as of now there are no photos posted. The username is** ** _fandrawings101_** **(I know so generic and dumb but I also plan on posting more than just this stories characters, so you can expect to see Ireth and Artemesia on there as well.**

 **Oh right...Y'all don't know who Artemesia is...Basically she is a character under construction who will be appearing when...if...I ever finish the Silmarillion.**

 **anywho! read and review my lovelies, Y'all know I love them Reviews.**

 **and OMG...have y'all seen the Power Ranger's movie?! Holy Shit, I was never a huge fan of the original PR, but HOLY SHIT. It was amazing and I would literally go watch it again and pay full price. Go see it. I implore you.**

 **haha, look at me using fancy words.**


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